Sunday Morning, 3 a.m.

Sundays, at three, on the long walk home,

when you stagger a little and your hair needs a comb,

who is driving a transit van?

Who is this Bill or Bob or Dean or Dan?

When the streets are soundless

and the skies off-black

the fears are boundless

that this driver is Jack.

At only twenty miles an hour,

this van’s engine’s on minimum power,

Jack spots my hair and slows down more,

leans across and opens the door.

But it’s me that’s lucky, I needn’t have feared,

I’m not a woman and I have a beard.