Craned onto the site from a truck
the ten-by-ten corrugated steel cube,
our paint shop. Nothing for sale
but a magnet for kids: bricked,
scorched, clambered upon, adorned
Stoke, Vale, obscenities from spray cans.
Inside the door, an Alsatian’s head
in sagging red gloss welcomes you
to a throat-seizing reek of turps,
linseed and propane. Bowed shelving
to the left and right and straight ahead
an old door on two empty tea chests –
our prep bench – strewn with rock-hard rags,
clogged wire brushes, clotted stir sticks.
Underneath two five-gallon drums of gunk,
and the piss can. We referred to it
by its nameplate above the door:
Torton Strong Box, and down the months
more affectionately as the Torton –
our lightning-proof protector of paint
for gutters, soil pipes and railings.
