You recognise him: the stance, the mumble,
“Six tons of sandy loam (in bags?), in here?”
The sharp intake of breath, like a tiger wheezing.
“Can’t be done,” he growls.
You suspect it can.
But he rolls out excuses like
Tony Blackburn plays hits from the sixties.
“Sorry love, health and safety,
too narrow; too high,” he purrs.
From the look in his eye
you see you lost your brains with your waist.
No sensible person would expect
him to deliver six tons of sandy
loam (in bags) to the slope behind
the wall in your garden with a drive
that’s too narrow for his lorry.
He’ll “dump them in the road” if you want.
Six tons of sandy loam in the road!
It’d be lethal!
Not his problem: he’s offered.
If you don’t choose to take his advice,
what can he do? He hasn’t got all day
and you’re the one who ordered
six tons of sandy loam (in bags)
in the first place,
expecting him to