The Business of Optimism

You'd be amazed, you tell the man
you're loading a bed frame in the car
tilting wood slats, sliding sides
between the seats. Seats like shoulders
the head rests, heads. The places I've been
you tell him. This car has swooped
between the mountains, skirted lochs
it's happier heading North you say
you make it stand for yourself
you are better where the landscape
gives out to heather, to hills
the inhospitable browns -
not the ploughed lines of this South
land neatened for sleep.
He slides the bedhead in, surprised
it fits - but here's the story
your life: nothing looks enough
but every day surprises you.
I'm in the business of optimism
you tell him. He hands you the bag
of bolts, of screws, his doubts.
You want to think his life is safe
but the toddler in his doorway
makes you think it never will be.
On the way back you drive slow,
the boot lid tied, bumping,
your bed sticking out. Nothing is
tidy. But things get done.