Workshop.
His
marmalade jars of curtain runners
Jostle
screws, nails, boxes of come in handy,
Shelves
stocked, labelled within a hands reach
Of
putting together, of making do.
Piles
of blades of saws accompany the rafters
Waiting
for the time they’re made new.
The
vice he pestered me for years ago
Rusts
against the future’s closed back door,
Where
planks lean, crowd towards the meagre light
Inhaling
the smell of oil mixed with rot,
Waiting,
too, waiting to be transformed:
But
the workshop’s falling down.
It’s
not my place, this, I hear him laugh;
I’m
helpless, a foreigner, all out of words.
