Bullyboy cousin says it's twelve by ten
and though he doesn't want it
I still have to pay him
and we drag it from his loft
down the stairs through the door.
I timidly suggest it's too big
so he rolls it across the road
demanding the size of my room
razor knife clenched and poised.
He stands as he did when we were six
and I could smell the putty on his hands
as he chopped and shaped a little house
pulling the roof off, pushing it into my face.
A car glides round the corner
and neatly bisects us as we step back.
It's okay I say, it's perfect,
the tyre marks exactly match
the chevrons on my Art Deco tea set.