That brush I happened upon
in our dimly lit outhouse, one
mother used whilst I was in her belly
and all through my childhood.
Its bristles worn shorter than a fingernail,
I wrapped it in Saturday’s Final
and tied it with string, put it in for exchange
on a day he was too rushed to check.
Clearly not one of the firm’s,
they displayed it down the offices,
hung it up on the wall, an example
of how far he’d driven his men.
