After Clacker had roared into
the deserted school playground
in the works pickup,
he wouldn’t budge from his cab.
He left it to us to flip the clips
to free the tailboards. We took our time
dragging the ten-foot sections
of Mills scaffold frames and boards
off the bed, while he sat
in a bubble of Radio Stoke, stony-faced,
his eyes restlessly checking
the dashboard clock, us in his mirror.
He burst from his cab without greetings,
as though ready to fight us, tugging
on his gloves, yanking each frame,
crashing them onto the concrete,
chuntering it wasn’t his job
to be handling scaffold for painters.
His shiny boots going at it,
toe-punting, stamping fast the clips.
Door slammed, back in his cab,
reversing at high revs,
wheel-screeching away
to whatever site he was due next.
