During the worst years
it was your job to put
tea and cakes
on a silver tray,
smelling of mint,
and walk down
the crushed pebble drive
to the boy paid to
sleep under the car at night.
You never said his name,
or what he looked like,
or whether, when you came
upon him, curled up,
eyes black and glossy,
you ever caught him
singing silently to himself,
before the clatter of metal
made him go silent.