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Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

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Steven Blyth

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Decorating the Living Room

To shift the sanding's dust and smell of drying gloss,
The door's half open. Dad offers a tentative, "Hi",
Enters as nervously as the neighbours' cat,
Daren't give advice on my DIY,

Knowing it will be cast aside like the badger hair brushes
He gave me when I set up my first home.
"They'll last a lifetime if you treat them well."
Forgotten for days, they dried solid. Beyond hope.

He watches in horror, as if my pasting table is the rack,
Me tightening it mercilessly as I do two more sheets
In ways he wouldn't dream of, his own matched-up
Perfectly, not one bubble or crease.

Unable to bear anymore, he makes some coffee.
I stop, steer clear of decorating as we finally chat,
Stick to the day's headlines - how the government
Wants Freemasons to name their membership. "Prats,"

Says dad. "Don and Phil once approached me to join.
Daft and sinister. I told them to stuff it."
I feel proud he turned down what I hate - that exclusivity
That seems designed to make others feel like shit;

Proud he had the conviction to let pass
What could have peppered his life with perks.
Not that I wasn't proud before - now a dad myself
I know that keeping it all together is damn hard work.

But that pride feels commonplace; this kind is like that felt
When someone close scores the winning goal or run.
He's come first in Living Up To The Ideals Of Your Son.
Olympic champ in it; world record breaker.

He toys with my plumb line's weight as if it's his medal.

 

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