City Man weaves through the streets, eyes

Half closed, squinting

Against the bleached sunlight, his almost laugh

A deflating balloon, smiles

At the thought of balloons last week:

His son’s birthday, each one printed

With a black number six, though that

Was not his age.

‘But they were on offer’

And what he could, he gave

To the pocket-sized promise

That was the boy’s face, cupped lightly

In his father’s heavy hands, thinks quietly

Of the lives etched into country roads

That would make no mark on the pavement.