The man stands by his pick-up
truck and whirrs the automatic
windlass into life. Bob, Bob’s
wife and Bob’s wife’s niece watch.
When he arrived, he eyed Bob’s car,
scratched his baseball-cap, said the ad
had had him understand it wasn’t quite
so… But he’d take it. For parts.
Bob has been busy: he’s jettisoned
the other contents of the corrugated iron
garage. Only two prehistoric oil-cans –
‘good for ten years yet’ – get saved.
The cable tautens, and Bob’s car –
insofar as it can still be called
a car – ploughs into daylight. No tyres.
No engine. Chassis on the gravel.
The man operates the controls
with one thumb. ‘Can we help at all?’
‘No, it’s OK.’ Bob’s wife’s niece’s small
son’s playing with a bucketful of stones.
The pick-up humps up the unmade lane.
Bob’s car rides piggyback, bumping side
to side. They turn onto the main road
at the top, and everybody goes inside.
