Almost

I see her nearly every morning
A lawyer, I imagine, or a doctor
Or a boutique owner, perhaps
The BMW black and shining clean
Sunglasses crouched artfully in her hair
As she talks rapidly to the windscreen

She's always ahead of me
Two, maybe three, cars
Behind the young lad in his golf
Who, in a moment or two
Will go racing away from the lights
Only to brake hard at the next ones

The nurse will join us about now
Quite close to the exit from our estate
With her pink ribbon badge
And her swinging air freshener
I'll get a wave if I let her out
With a smile and a raise of her coffee cup

No way will I do that for the grouchy one
The older guy cleaning his windscreen
With what looks like a sad dishcloth
Nosing out too far, annoying everyone
He probably works for a loans' company
Or house alarms, another of my favourites

And then there's the girl with the dog
On the front seat, its tail wagging
Far from the safety grill at the back
Outdoorsy in her green wax jacket
Maybe she works at the local kennels
Or is visiting her mum, down in the village

Tomorrow, I will see most of them again
Nearly get to know them, again
Like sneaking a peek at the driver beside you
As you wait at the traffic lights
Or glancing across as you overtake
In the racing lanes of the motorway

And, no, they probably aren't doctors
Or brokers or charity shop workers
But we shall never know
Because one day he's not there any more
And she has moved on, perhaps to Paris
Or New York or somewhere sunny
Where fresh swarms of strangers will form
In the half-awake slow thinking mornings
When we, almost, meet.

By Declan Whitney