Uber Ride at Christmas

Every backseat transit is a ritual — a baptism,
a confirmation; in the worst case, last rites. At first,
I think Giorgos is sermonising — antic language,
prattling hands, eyes rear-viewed to mine.
He opens with the virus: all these cases —
only the old ones die, eighty, ninety, what does it matter?
I tune out as quick as if he were a priest,
but when he tells me how his wife,
who loved him, fed him, and blessed him
for thirty-seven unremarkable years,
died in front of him at the dinner table one evening
eight months ago, I wonder if this is a confession.
Who am I to close the grille on such an act of faith?
I listen to his litany of care, dazzling in its ordinariness,
its everyday magnificence, and my eyes mirror his tears.
I will pray for his release. Outside, Christmas revellers
shine in late-December sun; a well-known face
sells the Big Issue at the same old pitch. Alighting,
Giorgos urges care — wear your mask, stay healthy.
I touch him on the shoulder, am absolved.