I'm a handyman; I've been up
guttering half the night.

I eyed up a couple of coupling nuts,
and tackled the loose flashing.

Give me a tingle, and I'll do
your roof. Beam in my eye, I'm

a handyman. My mother gave me
the cold feed, the insulation:

she filed me, pointed me nicely
with a bolster. I'm a handyman.

My ragged edges were trowelled
smooth, and always finished off

with a firm, stiff brush. I'm a
handyman, I've pumped capillaries

full of thick silicone, guaranteed.
I render myself: there were fractures

but I cracked them alone,
no assistance. I'm a handyman. Find

my pincers, itching to nibble;
my ladders have non-slip feet.

I strip, quickly. I'm a handyman.
Downstairs I'm distressing the furniture.

On soft nights you'll hear sobs
threading my broken flues.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday