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Janet Fisher

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All Clear

Midnight, the water won’t go away,
sicks itself back: a blockage
far down the pipe, out of reach
of plunger or coat hanger. The radio dishes
the Saturday latest. Who won what.
Perhaps it’s a bleach job, or caustic
to skin my fingers, bring on my asthma,
fail. Sailing By and the Shipping.
But the World Service breaks the news,
and I poke and plunge, gloved now
and masked, to free the backed-up gunge.
No good. Next day it’s still there, worse.
I ladle the scum into buckets;
it’s pissing down and drone, drone:
who knew her, who loved her, plumbers
who won’t turn out on a Sunday, and flowers
banked up enough to cause an avalanche.
It’s a holiday - no cooking, no telly -
so we eat out, drive to Homebase,
Du Pré’s Elgar riding the storm,
for a stronger plunger. Pointless.

Late Monday the plumber shows,
saws a new trapdoor, drops under
to unstuff the elbow, get us running clear.

 

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