Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

The first thing she noticed was my hands -
the scars. Said she'd read my palm and held them to the light
under the optics. 'Mechanicking,' I told her, 'Mostly bodywork.
There's a thousand paint jobs written in those lines.'
Later, she’d sit and stroke my hands for hours
on end, like she was healing smashed glass.

I remember looking at her reflection in the glass
behind the bar, seeing her skinny hands
pull pints, count change - nifty. Then, after hours,
she’d wipe down the counter, turn out the light,
take off her apron. Outside we’d whisper our lines,
turn shy, tell each other daft stories about work.

My dad - pensioned off early - said every bugger should work.
‘Someone’s got to empty bins, sweep broken glass -
make them do it.’ He’d be checking the lines
on his Littlewoods, rubbing his greedy hands
at every score draw. In the bad times, he’d take the light
bulb out and sit in the dark for hours.

Me? I’ve always put in the hours,
there’s never been a time I didn’t work.
It’s hard in the workshop, the tungsten light
plays hell with a hangover, and all that glass
lets in the cold. No good at school, but my clever hands
can fill in a dent so you’d never see, draw coach lines

just like that, straighter than any lines
I drew in class. She’s got this old mini. Ninety hours
it took to fix it - welding, respray, everything. My hands
were in bits by the time I’d done - hard work,
but worth it - best job I’d ever seen - finish like glass,
roofline like a rainbow where it caught the light.

This might sound sort of daft but I felt light -
you know? Like all the wrinkles and lines
had been ironed out. As I was windolening the glass
on the inside, I started thinking about a house - all the hours
we could spend together, feet up after work,
me rubbing her feet, her stroking my hands.

My dad said it’d never work; her and me, chalk and cheese,
                                                                         dark and light.
‘You watch her! There’ll be lines of drunks. Flirty talk. Out all
                                                                                     hours!’
But I think of our hands: me rubbing down filler, her buffing up glass.