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

meetings.

‘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.