WHERE THE HELL IS TRAILER B?
I’ve got the white house on the phone
the eagle has flown
& he’s not a happy bunny
so where do you think that leaves you, einstein jr?
whistling bieber in the goon shop
dabbing a lollipop up your ass
while a tornado screws up the joint
that’s where, mister
so if you wouldn’t mind
GO OUT AND GET ME TRAILER B

well where the F major did you leave it?
okay, so I politely request that you find it
the head horror of who-gives-a-shit
just sent me a valentine made of bricks
yeah?
he says he’s sending the monkey brigade
they’re gonna line up outside, two by two
kick my hairy butt and put it on youtube
so if it’s not too much trouble
would ya get yourself on that bike with the basket on the front
or whatever the hell it is you drive these days
AND BRING ME TRAILER B

am I the only living brain in this god forsaken
kindergarten with any idea of anything?
am I the only nubhead who ever read a book?
how’ve you made it this far?
what d’you brush your teeth with every morning? mooch paste?
wha d’ya put on your cornflakes? semi-stiffed milk?
cheesus h starfish I don’t care who you know or who you don’t know
I know what you should know, okay?
you should know where the GOOD GODDAMN TRAILER B IS
so do it. do it now. do that thing.

the prince of hubcaps just sent me a note
email? hell, no. this was nailed to the forehead of the former ambassador
a warning, if you will
look – am I the only schlub with a window?
wha d’ya think those birds are doing
hitchcocking-up the playground like that?
why’’d ya think it’s gone so quiet?
watch the news once in a while, goldilocks
the cartels are stocking up on duck tape
and believe me, it ain’t for no ducks

the picture I liked best?

a watercolour

in a wormy wooden frame

an old barn by the sea

with a path drawing you down

through a field of poppies.

‘By a cousin of mine’ she said

‘Used to be a set designer. For the opera.

Long gone now, of course.’

I lean in to read

the signature in the corner

pressed with the end of the brush

when the barn was done

and the clouds were lit

and the field was singing with red

‘I’ve got another one of his somewhere,’ she said

‘but not in a frame, I’m afraid.’

it happened overnight
or so it seemed
one day, a modest green bush
the next, a redcurrant carnival
I’d never seen so many currants
a super-abundance of currants
it was like Val, our next door neighbour
had snuck out at night
and tipped a sack of red plastic earrings over the fence
you could hardly call it picking
I only need smile in their general direction
and they hurled themselves sobbing into the colander
I’m sorry to report not all of them made it
many were spilled wastefully upon the earth
where I left them to the birds and the worms
libation I said out loud – but, come on! who was I kidding?
certainly not the Goddess of Soft Fruits
who, riding past on a bumble bee,
shook her head sadly
at my currant debauchery,
then spurred her mount on
to other, lovelier, more temperate gardens
(not Val’s, though. just saying.)

we saw the girls off on the coach this morning
a school trip to France
half past five, the sun a smeary yellow bloom,
waved, even though the windows were opaque
(‘think you’re free of them?’ the driver said, slamming the doors
‘think again; I’m bringing replacements by return’
we laughed, even though we didn’t understand what he meant)

Afterwards, back home,
Kath was settling in to do the work she hadn’t been able to do all that week
so I decided to take Lola for a walk

it was still super-early
the woods were held
in a cool blue mist
even the birds were stunned
one sharp, single chirrup from an oak
(hardly sounding like a bird at all
more like something whose batteries were out)

I followed my feet
wondering whether I might see something I wouldn’t normally see
a badger, maybe
I’d never seen a badger in the wild before
I knew there was a sett on the far side of the wood
so I drifted in that direction
until – there it was – half a dozen badger-sized
holes in the badger-worn ground

I stood and waited
still as a tree
stiller, in fact
still as a hunter
(Lola wasn’t impressed
she stared at me for guidance
then gave up and carried on with her own investigations)
I was sure that if I held my position
a badger would eventually make itself known
snouting-out of a hole
and, not sensing anything alarming
would see no harm in carrying on with whatever the hell it is
badgers do at this godforsaken hour

but as still and hunterly as I was
and as long and as patiently as I waited
nothing happened
nothing at all
no badgers
in or out or anywhere else
so I gave it up as a bad job and headed home

and for some reason
(maybe it was the early hour, maybe it was something else,
it’s difficult to say)
I was suddenly cold
cold in the way
cold gets me sometimes
crackling through the cavities of my long bones
drawing down my skin

it didn’t help that I’d started thinking about Time
Time as a Thing
spooling out behind me, infinitely
infinitely ahead, too
(and other directions, probably, if I knew anything about it, which I don’t)
which surely only leaves me
the smallest, most infinitely diminishing particle of Time
in which to see a badger

or anything else

how terrifying is that?

but then I thought about it from the badger’s point of view
I’m pretty sure badgers don’t waste any time
freaking themselves out thinking about Time
they couldn’t care less if Time was infinitely spooling or anything else
they have other, more pressing concerns
worms, maybe. roots. cows.
or whether that man and his dog are ever going to clear off.

anyway, I was warming up again
the mist was lifting

the girls were back on Wednesday

I tore down the shed today
I can’t say it was difficult
the whole thing was rotten
I could’ve huffed and puffed and blown the shed down
dispossessing not three little pigs but
innumerable spiders
horrible as currants,
abandoning their nurseries
screaming from the light;
slugs, ribbed jelly thumbs
gummed to the strandline
of an upturned pot;
a brace of frogs, both alike in dignity,
stopping just long enough to give me the eye
before lolloping off any-old where

(and so on
I had a shed to scrap
you can over-think these things)

but now it’s all gone
ripped, pulled, smashed, stacked,
carted off to a designated recycling facility

it is no more
no roof, no floor
no window, no door,
that slouchy, shed defined space
released to wilder territories of air

I wonder if any of it comes back, though?
do spiders and frogs and slugs have a memory for these things?
for those bounded spaces where life once held them close?

do sheds?

‘Are there any special precautions for suede?’
The salesman hesitates.
‘What like?’ he says. ‘What d’you mean, special precautions?’
‘Well – you know – for rain’
‘Don’t, is my advice. Check the forecast.’
‘Okay.
‘But if you want to go out…. if you have to go out,
just don’t go splashing around.
‘Okay.’
‘And get some special coating. They sell it next door.’
‘Spray-on?’
‘Yes.’ He looks at me. ‘From a can.’
After a moment, he boxes the shoes and starts ringing them up.
‘These too,’ I say, handing him a clip of black socks.
‘Do you want a bag?’ he says. ‘Five pence?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s okay. Put the socks in the box.’
‘The socks in the box?’
‘Yes. The socks in the box.’
He opens the box, puts in the socks.
Shuts it, leaving his hand on top for a moment
like he’s scared the socks’ll try to bust straight out of there.
I hand him my card.
‘Don’t forget about the rain,’ he says
Jabbing the buttons on the till
‘I won’t. If it’s raining too hard, I’ll just
Stay in. Or if I absolutely have to go out
I’ll tie a couple of bags round my feet.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, handing me my receipt
‘You could totally do that.’