I probably got the title wrong. It’s a poem about a woman getting in her car at an airport and driving away. It is simultaneously prissy and sexualized (thoughts of how she settles into her car seat), told in a jog trot Hallmark stanza. It was like straight Auden–not the great Auden who died in 1939, but the nelly old Anglican who wrote poems about his bathroom.

I never admired Philip Larkin more.