The Labours
The car is at the garage.
Still, she is slayed
when he flies back
every evening
on a ten speed.
Down the straight from
the roundabout after
his shift, he risks
signals (Greers, Ilam,
Clyde) to shave seconds
from that long breath
to the start of Bealey
where an open window keeps
her bed lamp on,
his body is spent,
salted with water.
On her dresser he places
leg clips, on the sill
her remote.
From across the city
drones a Hercules
warming up for the ice.
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