Cleat hooks glinted on the window wall.
We checked again the spotless parquet
for paint flecks, even the galvanised conduits
and trunking, the suspended lights.
A song of an American summer played low.
He slipped in ahead of schedule, mild, beige,
miles from his reputation. From a chrome tin
a telescopic aerial deftly linked
to a wing mirror. Straight backed,
stepping sideways around the high room,
his eyes fixed on the mirror tilted just so,
keen to pick us up on any skimping –
beneath the cast iron water pipes and radiators.
At his shoulder, the chargehand
feigned laughter at his own remarks.
We thought of the brushes we’d taped
to broom handles, to hooked wires
that got us to places we guessed he’d go,
smiled as we watched him getting smaller,
scuttling off without a word.
