I usually explain to my littlest
that the car is thirsty.
the backseat today is empty
I think it anyway.

quiet at the petrol station
and for once, unhurried,
come memories from
my own backseat childhood.

no credit card pumping.
my father, hawk-eye,
watching the dials
shirt-sleeves rolled-up,
hands to the nozzle –

cursing at that penny over,
whistling for a round pound filling.