A Man I Know

Here he stands, central in his gallery
Still, backlit, next to twisted-copper bodies.
The sculptures on their plinths spill out the door
And hide amongst the courtyard trees.
Oiled canvas stretched tight in frames
Catches the vibrant rainbow light and gleams.
And when the clients leave he shuts up shop-
Flips the switch to kill all window light,
Removes his navy suit jacket top.
Packs away the board and signs and
Behind him shuts the iron gate, with padlock.
Now, crouched among the shells of silent cars,
Greasy insides laid out across the concrete yard,
He is bent with shoulders hunched and cap askew
Beneath a bonnet that salutes the orange sky.
We call his name and he straightens with a creak,
Smears oily hands across beige thighs,
Folds his hat into a pocket at the rear,
And cracks a smile that creases up his eyes.
He stamps his sturdy boot clad feet
Against November wind and leaves behind
A fairytale breadcrumb trail of brown
Muddy snowflake piles, so deep.
Later, at the chime, we open up our scarlet door
To find him standing with proffered wine.
Stood at the bright white island he unloads
Pieces of his life from every pocket, sets keys
And wallet, and phone upon the side while
Pots and pans steam atop the Aga grange.