I recognise that open door
between the night-time
and the endless road
that small white window
of the phone and the driver’s
quiet mutterings all journey
who is it speaking to them
softly all through the shift
companion to the cat’s eyes
the unseen bend of the road
that propensity I know
that threshold to another life
sometimes when I’m alone
tired blood gone heavy
I let them in hold up
each one to the light
all face like the moon
it isn’t love just some
refraction of the possible
I’ll never meet them
but like hidden frequencies
their voice is always there
when my body starts to hum
the music of being wanted
Andrew McMillan