Solving Problems, Except One

 

My Dad is fixing things around the house.

There’s his big ape book sat on my homework

to stop it flying off and his trainer

propping open my bedroom door at night −

now the summer heat and spooks can escape.

A photograph with his gigantic fish

perches in front of our television,

hiding the ugly mark, the sale sticker made.

 

On a damp day, he lines our umbrellas

on the door mat, so the rain doesn’t creep

to the new carpet and make my Mum sad.

Sometimes, when he’s mended the broken bits:

hammered nails, smeared glue and connected wires,

he sleeps, on his favourite sofa and snores.

I cover my ears and wonder: how is he going to fix that?