Monday, 1 December 2014
New poem: House
When I was at university I used to come home
and late evening I’d get into long conversations
with my father. Sometimes these would last
until two or three in the morning until my mum
would bang on the floor and tell us to get to bed.
I remember one time he said that it was down to
us to change the world now. He and his friends
had tried and made mistakes.
‘How’s it going?’ he said.
I said we were doing our best. We have
‘And?’ he said.
I said that the meetings were really good and we
weren’t going to make the same mistakes, He
asked me what was it like where I was living and
I said that there were was a gang of us in a house.
‘All students?’ he said.
‘No, there’s a whole load of us who had met
up in the meetings but there’s also a guy who
works on the sites. He’s a gas. He gets dressed up
in his site gear and goes to bed in it. Boots an’ all.
Then in the morning, his alarm rings and he steps
straight out of bed, out the room, down the stairs
and out the house.’
Mum banged on the floor. My dad got up. On the
way out he said, ‘Put the bit about changing the
world on hold.’
‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘this time it’s going to happen.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not till you do something about him
going to work in his sleep.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘you don’t get it. He’s having a laugh.
We’re getting there.’
‘Switch the fire off when you turn in,’ he said.