Evening was falling when we drove
into its dusty forecourt. From its kiosk
a young man, older than my thirteen years
came out. Through the open door
the voice of a radio was serenading
the twilight with a hackneyed love-song.
The pump hummed. The analogue counters
spun behind their glass. I noticed
his muscled arms honeyed by the sun
his dirty jeans, how tight his tee-shirt fitted,
until he caught me and I turned away.
The pump stopped. He capped
the petrol tank and we drove off,
the service station contracted
in the rear-view mirror, my fear
descended like the darkness all around us.