‘It’s the overflow from the boiler,’ she said
taking me outside and pointing at the plastic pipe.
‘That’s too short. It’s eaten through the roof tiles,
and now it’s soaking into the French doors.’
She was right, the walls damp, the glass condensed.
I went to the hardware store, bought some duct tape
and an extra length of pipe,
dug out a hacksaw from under the eaves,
phoned a neighbour to borrow a ladder,
and treading lightly manufactured a repair.
Inside, washing my face I inspected
the lines on my forehead, the crow’s feet
stretching to my hairline, clearly in ebb,
the grey strands daily growing stronger,
and on tip toe - left knee aching,
shoulders and neck tight with trapped pain,
the dogs quartering me on the daily walks -
to see more clearly the ingrown hairs
black-headed on my cheeks I wondered
what tools and substances I would need
to affect an effective fix.
‘Apple crumble,’ she says standing at the door,
‘just out of the oven and I’ve custard heating.
Don’t be too long. It don’t want it to spoil.’
Are those mirrored eyes smiling?
I put on an old softened t-shirt and turn
Comfortable with my aging architecture.