New clients.
Comfy old ranch house.
Elderly couple wants a platform built
in the garage, above the Lexus
to store suitcases, Christmas kitsch.
To look around, I climb a ladder.
The old woman in flour-dusted apron
over calico dress says to her husband,
“Eugene, you’d better move the cat dish
from under the ladder. We wouldn’t want the man
to fall on it and hurt himself.”
Not budging, in no hurry,
white-haired Eugene stares
first at the loft area, then
slowly lowers his eyes
to the floor.
“If he falls,” the old man says,
“he’ll hit the beam up there and break his neck.
Then he’ll hit the water heater and the washing machine.
He’ll be dead long before he reaches the cat dish.”
“Oh,” his wife says. “All right then.”
The cat dish remains,
unmoved,
under the ladder.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
