The washing machine arrives held by men
with hands the size of beer barrels.
They don’t want a cup of tea because
they’re both desperate for a piss. I apologise
for the tight corners they had to manoeuvre.
They’ve seen worse. They use a drill
for something I don’t understand.
It makes my son cry. I mention I’ve never
been able to confidently use a drill. They ignore me.
The shorter man says he likes my Jim Beam
bourbon whiskey t-shirt, the larger one says
he prefers chinning the stuff. I don’t mention
I can’t stand the drink and none of us
bring up how it belonged to a man
with more courage I can imagine
and how I’ll never have the chance to tell him.

© Carl Burkitt 2021