From here you can see so many gardens

by DS Maolalai

no use a measure: he drives nails

to frame, within which a roof hangs

like clothes from a clothes-horse

alongside a south-facing balcony.

and the sun is on side today—

placed so the fibreglass

might cure before 5pm's home-time.

beneath, in a kitchen,

a woman makes coffee—

she brings out three cups,

hands off two and then watches

and sips from the third one,

held up with both palms

facing inward. mark

holds the ladder; passes up buckets

and tools from the back

of the van. joe sweats, shifts the brushes

and spreads out this illness-thick

tar which will dry to a hippohide.

his cup, on the boundary

with the neighbours flat roof, sits

like a cat, its steam comfortably

blending with the chemical scent

of the sealant and the salt

smell of sweat. from here

you can see into so many

gardens. plastic chairs leaning

in mildew-soft shade. jam jars

given second lives

as ashtrays on windowsills,

half full with rainfall and butts.