at arm’s reach, side by side,
more than twenty-five feet
up our treble extension ladders,
shuddered by artics and buses
thundering up and down
Newcastle Street. But Stanway
won’t lend me his scraper.
It would take seconds,
less than a minute, to run it
around the window frame
where wood meets glass,
scrape off the loose paint.
But he’d prefer to see me
edging back down, clinging on
to the bowing side rails,
hurrying back to our caravan
on the waste ground, rummaging
under the bench seats
until I find mine that slipped
from my overalls at breakfast,
then bollocking me for losing time.
