New Smoke

The builder wouldn't touch it, not gas.
Shook his head, suggesting that behind there
nothing would be right.

You closed the door on him and with your
tools, began. Swivelling the gas fire
unscrewing the back plate.

And there like a secret the house held
a tiny fireplace, what you wished for
soot black, cobwebbed.

You swept it, tenderly. Fetched a grate
lit paper and watched it draw, running out
across the road, craning at the chimney

hand shielding eyes, and there, faint
against the sky, new smoke, yours.
You hugged yourself.

Later the gas man came, unscrewed the fire
wouldn't take money for such a little job
and you lay there all evening

toasting yourself in your own
get up and go.