What’s Wrong with David?
David does the garden. Ever since the ramp,
I’ve been keeping an eye, sometimes
he says to me the grass is too short
or too wet to be cut. To be fair,
till now he’s been the bees’ knees, as I have,
finding him jobs to do in winter: the leaves,
stuff in the greenhouse. He always has a coffee,
chocolate biscuits and a chat—at Margaret’s
he gets bugger all, works straight through.
Pay-wise, cash in hand, always a quid
above the going rate. But last Tuesday,
he turns his nose up at the lawn. Himself
wants to trim the heather. Now I know
he’s dapper with his cropped Tom Jones beard
but it’s still in bloom. I wheel myself
round to the mower in the shed. Your David’s
got the blade at the middle setting, no good
for this time of year when it grows a foot
a week. And when he does cut it, he walks
too quick, just combing it flat. No wonder
there’s couch grass and all sorts coming through.
I’m not having Margaret’s looking plush
while mine looks shithouse. It might be his teeth,
all those front ones, they’re not his own.
Stuart Pickford is the recipient of an Eric Gregory Award. His first and only collection, The Basics, was published by Redbeck Press (2002) and shortlisted for the Forward Best First Collection Prize. Stuart lives in Harrogate and teaches in a local comprehensive school.