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Onlooker

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Onlooker Increasingly, of late, despite his swelling pegboard of tailored tools and know- how, he finds a tilted or twisted or shattered thing for which he brings to the workbench  only a warm body to stand by  and look on, the way he did  before scootering off when his dad “taught” him  to change oil in the blue suburban, or when, last July, his wife broke  down and called the plumber  and he sat by and warmed the bench, in the line-up as guy who turns off water  then crunches little peanuts of small talk about the Braves,   and sometimes he can’t even find  the tool for the shut-off valve  to keep the whole place from going  under, like last-week’s lunch with a student  stirred to pour out the backed-up  mess of her parents’ divorce, or how he watches the inherited fissures of his daughter's mind widen, widen, wide open as last week when he came home to a news story  about the next-door town on the other end of th...
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New Fixture

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New Fixture  And having finally gotten down  to climbing up and grounding the green in the junction box,  at last we canned the old canned fixture  and a new light shone in the living  room, our new living room  by the way things seen  in a new light are new things,  things like as this child of mine, who even as she runs to me each day after school  I find I am forever running  after, yesterday’s big truck  pulling up the street and out  of reach as a pigtail dangles  out the back like a power cord.
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Repair

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Repair Washing machine this week, Sunday last  the nook behind the dishwasher   his self-sized cathedral. Week before that he told his therapist the fear,  the one rolled tight in him  like a snapped Achilles, and in return   the shrink didn’t try to fix it but said  it was good to be said, how he had seen  his own a week ago to say  some things that bore saying, that that was how this thing works.  He doesn’t know how this thing works, the mechanics too tight to see and if he could still well- beyond his expertise, but he knows  he’ll be here again next week in another tight spot, sweating    in the work of repairing  what repairs the dirty dishes,  the growing mound of soiled socks.
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Becoming III

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Becoming III Maybe it’s as simple as you just start doing the type of things  the person you want to be  does. Maybe those people  who seem to slip so seamlessly  into their skin just took the in- complete on their definition of self and got on with it. Maybe  kindness is the best way to become one of those kind people,  or not speaking so much  a sure step toward the contemplative type. And forgive me, of course it’s never  that simple, but even now  a four-year old bends over  the orange strawberry,  neither one too ripe to quit  willing the other into sweet red.
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Foundation Dilemma

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Foundation Dilemma  He knows that to really get  under the comforters and tidy up the bed- rock the house must  be stripped like sheets, the fitted one he has  worked so tirelessly to keep  cornered must be utterly de- paired: insulation from sheetrock,  sheetrock from studs,   patched pipes popping  from couplings like cut veins  till nothing remains but a soup  of sewage and what once was dry-   wall. And he’d pray for such a severing storm, even swing  himself the sledge, could he be sure the children  would emerge from the wreckage clear- eyed and assuring they understood how necessary the nightmare to such a crisp, unshakeable morning.
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Monday After Easter

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Monday After Easter Taking a break from taxes to pay  my civic duty, which is to say  amid the riotous red   of Azalea just how green  it all is around here,  I mean everywhere really  really green in every bracket  of being, like we live  lost in the overgrowth of God’s chest hair  and he is swelling up his biggest wind- fall  to sing summer. Can you  believe how close we are to the treasury, how non-deductible this life's employment?
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The Tinkerer Pauses

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The Tinkerer Pauses  Mid-way through the work he thinks how life’s a bag of chips and when you open it  mostly air. How the nothing he finds there only feeds  his craving for the deeper-in  where the crunch is kept, and past that where he suspects the crumbles bunch  in the corner, flavor-thick  with salt. How even here, the elemental stuck to his fingers, he still licks the world over like an ape for a flea. What is it he wants? A cold Sprite,  maybe, or just a gulp of what's  so full the thin bag of his lungs would surely burst, his soul fluttering out like a puff of white cheddar enough to set God's mouth watering.
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