Dew still rests on the seatoutside someone's doorthe man holds a clothwipes it all aroundthe motorbike is still cold not yet started
The lamp at the alley mouthstill shines alonea shadow stretches longacross the old tin wallthe sound of sweeping from inside
A slipper lies askewbefore the wet doorstepsomeone left it therelast nightthe man looks then steps past
He sits on the seatbut does not hurry awayhis hand twists the throttlethen releases it at oncedew falls drop by drop onto the clock face
At the end of the alleya door opensthe woman bends downpicks up the slippershe looks up says nothing
The motor starts for the first timestill hesitantthe man turns his headlooks back onceshe has gone into the house the door closes