Daunting
“Daunting, isn’t it?” I offered inadequately
To the sweating workman
Who grunted like a weightlifter attempting to lift a bus
And offered me an eye full of evil and contempt in reply.
“Are you sure there isn’t another way?”
“Perhaps a block and tackle? You know, lift it?”
Pointing up to the first-floor window
That was the focus of the workman and his mate.
Sensing contempt I retreated
Abandoning the worn heirloom wardrobe
Swaddled in protective cloth
Standing half on and half off
The garden path.
A while later
A loud rasping sound followed by a cacophony of tearing dry
Timber and despairing shouts
Roused me and shook the house.
“I said it was daunting.”
“It was the weight.”
“No, it was the rope.”
“We should have tried the staircase again.”
As ancient naptha rose into the morning air,
I surveyed the ruptured splintered
Box of childhood memories
“I never much cared for it myself.”
I said
And turned and walked away.
Copyright © David Alexander 2023