Charles Tucker

He can’t really remember
the earliest –
but there were open fields in Somerset 
and a tractor he used to drive sometimes.

    Well – America, maybe.
        He shows me a picture of a 1962 Corvette.

The worst? Probably
when he fell off his bike and distorted his spine.
Yeah, he remembers –
tarmac on bare skin, stones tight in a wound
like the smell of diesel
        behind the eyes.

Hazy. A memory. Three years back.
Systems delaying.

        The quiet.

But it’s ok now. He tells me

red is his favourite, the kind of red
they paint cars with and no,
he gets on with them well
but it’s healthy to argue, to talk.