It's Still Life

The Neighbour’s Window Installation
(or how to snoop and call it poetry)

scaffolding bolted.

Carol brings out
a tray of steaming mugs,
labels swinging on thread,
teabags left in.

builder’s tea.

half past eight.

“over there,”
a man points.

he’s dressed
for chilly mornings,
his breath clouding the air.

a young guy carries
window frames
two panes each —

says nothing,
paces slowly
back to the van
that’s covered in words,
telephone numbers,
quotes from satisfied customers.

everyone takes a mug
and leans
against the van

as if the day
is already finished.

“flathead, just one. ta!”

from the upper scaffold
a drill challenges timber —

wood splintering,
metal snarling back.

“I envy them.”

eh?

“metal windows.
full circle,
don’t you know —
plastic.
metal.
plastic.
metal.”

a train whistles
at the bottom of the hill.

if it stops here,
no whistle.

if it doesn’t,
it whistles.

sound carries
when the wind’s right.

“how’s it coming off up there?”

“not great.
apt to take a bit.”

the young guy
followed by an even younger one —

flathead screwdriver,
drill bit,
a pocket full
of sandpaper.

hammer:
three gentle taps.

then the drill.

sandpaper:
left right left.

“take it down a bit, mate.
yeah—
that’s it.”

phone to his ear:

“rest of the week’s wet.
best finish it now.
cheers.”

a grinder cuts metal
to size.

ten past nine.

Carol brings out
another tray
of steaming mugs.

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Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.