Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

Tenth Day, April 3rd 

And the window cleaner said to me, he said,  

eh up, mister, he didn’t lean close or whisper -  

brass-necked it across six feet 

You know what I’ve seen down nearly every street?  

Spare rooms full of it: forts made of loo-roll and pasta;   

He’s speaking ever faster,  

as if he’s afraid he’ll never again natter, 

as if this is the only thing that might matter 


And they were clapping again last night, bloody marvellous sight.  

Although, him, three doors down, he voted for all this 

And her across the road, the one who could teach snakes to hiss 

she never could stand the ‘theys’ and the ‘thems’ -  

and now, somehow, they’re her favourite little brown gems!  


And I warm to this little game of a little bit of blame  


and I try to tell him about the guy on his bike riding no-handed,  

a beer in one and his phone the other, laughter fixed on his face  

like he didn’t care who owned the road, redundant visi-vest  

blowing behind him.  


But the window cleaner's not listening and so I let him warm  

himself on my nodsmy shrugs and my what-can-you-dos 


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