He spends fifteen minutes bringing stuff in,
makes himself at home on the bathroom floor
as if he’s arrived at a favourite camp site.
I hear him thinking behind the door,
his expertise the commodity of silence.
He reminds me of a person I’ve seen before,
a supporting actor in an old Mickey Rourke film,
some comic sidekick from a BBC classic.
When he passes along the hall or stairs
there is a smell of fabric conditioner and fresh tobacco.
His spectacles hang from his neck on a leather cord,
his power tools have the calm, low frequency buzz
of equipment used for personal grooming.
I see him returning to his van to fetch more stuff,
his expertise also the commodity of time.
I will trust him like I would a nurse,
I will give him the long number across my bank card,
I will open and close doors for him.
Each morning he will wake with what he knows,
and each night I will sleep with what I don’t.