What luck that Sweatenham’s
had been flattened, its concrete base
remaining: the perfect spot
to sit the works caravan on blocks
and our paint shop beside it.
Ern and Jud deftly navigated
the Land Rover around dead tyres,
mangled iron, sprouting steel rods,
backing it into position
in full view of the Newcastle Street
shops and the windows above them,
all day traffic to Burslem or the A500:
the security of countless eyes
to save it being torched or toppled.
Here we slump to the drumming rain,
take turns to sleeve off condensation,
watch the cars heading elsewhere
oblivious to this Calor stove hissing
on its one good ring, our used matches
drowning in the tub of Swarfega.
