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 ‘’ and the ‘’ -
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 -vest
blowing behind him.
But the window cleaner's not listening and so I let him warm
himself on my nods, my shrugs and my what-can-you-dos