On the yard behind Hanley Fire Station,
Jean-Claude from the French manufacturer
is servicing the ladder. Bob, the chief mechanic,
hands slipped inside navy boiler suit
warm on his belly, purses his lips,
puffs his cheeks at Jean-Claude spinning
in the operator’s seat like a funfair ride,
testing the turntable: sending the ladder
higher than the drill tower, maxed out;
then all sections sliding down,
gathered into one again, compact.
In the first floor canteen
they face one another in silence –
Bob knows a spanner and a spindle
but can’t do French, Jean-Claude
flummoxed by the local cuisine –
both relieved they’re almost done,
back on their feet, cheers, au revoir.
Up there you’re on your own.
You wouldn’t believe the wobble,
even on a still day. You can spot fires
beyond the Potteries.
