THAT THING:

A low red building glimpsed through trees, clad in corrugated iron,
windows cut anywhere for the best views.
Market day, a crowded cafe, a long high table like a shelf under
the window.
In a car on the roof of a multi-story carpark, engine off, radio off,
a phone pressed to the ear – guided by a voice.
A small room at the back of a house, piled high with boxes of fresh
trainers, all the same brand, some the wrong size.
A carrier bag full of paper memories from a suitcase used for
travelling years ago.
A peanut butter sandwich.
A delicate conversation.

(K)