The Academi Cardiff International Poetry Competition

Keith Chandler

At the Cleaners

That girl born with a claw for a hand,
fingers fused together like a lobster,
makes no bones about it:
answering to the doorbell’s ching,
bangs it down on the counter
as if challenging you not to gasp,
writes out your ticket with looped slowness
making sure you stare at the damned thing.

One day carrying my best suit
over one arm in its body bag,
I waited, pinged. No one came.
Taking in the intimate sweet
stink of ammonia, coats
queued up on rails, out of date
calender girl, ticking clock,
I became aware of sounds more sawn-off

than the usual thump thump thump
of clothes bumping round a machine,
that rose with groans
to a mutually satisfying apocalypse.
Soon after, emerging from behind a screen
of zipped-up gowns, not a look back
at whatever tumble had taken place
among (I imagine) laundry bags,

she informed me with unruffled
coolness that my suit
would be ready at the end of the week.
Good for you Lady! I thought
noticing for the first time as she smoothed
her skirt with that raw clubber of a hand
what kissable cheeks, what a great body
behind the counter she really had.