Cry Lots For Father by Christopher McCarthy

The building maker’s second son walks up and down flight after flight of stairs with a ring of keys. Lock doors. Count A. B.

Still. The site is under construction. Mid-morning groaning ceases for fifteen minutes. Then the first call is heard. ‘Lot 47’. Look a rickety elevator shaft floats upward. ‘Semi-detached unit’. Look someone’s left the light on. ‘312 A’. Fence. ‘B-block’. Drywall. Con the concrete. The triplex curves at the roundabout. ‘Lot 15’. The site forms an enormous aerial H. Watch from above.

Lots are plots. Buildings aren’t built; they’re grown in the dirt. Water the box hedges. Dos broke a soaker in C. yesterday afternoon. Where’s the hose? Nobody knows.

Water each box by bucket. Fences aren’t up yet. Put on a safety harness. Pray for a rain cloud. Bright sun turns green green to brown brown.

Sip coffee truck sludge. Pour it down your throat. Spray the cedars. Today’s lucky. The first paycheque paid at fifteen dollars an hour. Slosh the steps a bit. Set full ones down. Half full ones next time. A transfer slip floats down on the breeze from one of the upper storeys and lands with the rest of the garbage.

The building maker’s second son walks down to lower B. Sidestep new slop and sawdust. Grind down a cigarette butt. Unlock the door to no. 4

Exit. Get on the radio: ‘4. No delivery’.

8:15. The board boys have been at it for two hours already. Watch tenants in the completed pod across the road. They slouch into kitchens to cook their cold granola.