Just Once.
On winter evenings coming home,
the fire was my concern.
If it were dead
I’d have to bring it back to life
before my dad’s return.
Often the process failed.
The paper burned the wood,
the coke refused to catch.
By the third attempt,
I knew it was no good.
The doorbell and the sound of shoes
scraping on the mat. He’d see
me on my knees, the rubbish in the grate:
You put the kettle on.
Leave this to me.
I’d watch him do what I had done
and see the flame, promisingly frail
grow 'til the coke was glowing as it should.
Just once. Just once
I’d pray, while making tea
just once, please, let him fail.
The Decorator Admires His Predecessor’s Work
That’s genius that is. You won’t find many
can do that today. Do what, she asked
wanting the old fashioned wall paper removed.
Craftsmanship. The man who hung that paper
knew his trade. Worked for the thrill of a job
done well. Proud of a skill that proved itself
when no one noticed it. Me, I would give
anything to be that good. And
how long will it take you? Years, Missus.
Study, practice, victories, defeats. This job.
Sorry. Two days. First we strip his work
pull down that old stuff, slap on undercoat
than wallop on the paint you chose last night.
I’d like to take the time to do it right,
then both of us could…By the hour?
Quick, Slick and Outta Here. That’s me.
Whoever hung this paper loved his work.
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