by Angela Prew

We work to a beat
in our house today.
The treble is taken
by a falsetto whine
the base by the hammers beneath.
And we scurry to fetch
more buckets
and coffee.

If we open the door
into the yard
we’re enveloped in dust,
we’re lost in a cloud,
and the men climb down
from their ladders to chat,
while we scurry to fetch
the biscuits
and coffee.
Soon the builders will leave
with their noise and their dust
and the clatter of labour
and chatter.
The noise will abate
and we’ll hear ourselves speak.
The house will look new
but what will we do
when we don’t have to fetch
their biscuits
and coffee?


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