frozen on the top street in barcroft

 and looking out over the town splayed

on the valley floor below

like a shattered bauble

 i await your call then see the car

                    our 2004 silver volvo sedan

                    parked beneath a streetlight

                    with a man inside

his hands around the steering wheel

like hands around a cracking branch

his face on the inner convex

of the tinted windshield unshaven

breathing our cherry scented air

and worrying aloud

via speaker phone over the low hum

of the archers on radio four

i worry about coins in the change tray

and jellies in the glove compartment

and wonder if the odometer glowing

in his face might put him off

any notion he has of theft

so I ask getting in * how are things*

      to which he looks at me nodding

 back to being you

 the seats frayed imitation leather

warming beneath us both

as you carry me home in the dark

 trusting that someone wasn t plagiarising

your creator s blueprints

for a doppelganger

 and that my own creator

remains beside me driving