On the coffee table sit glossy books about wine.
On a shelf, carefully arranged like a little shrine,
stand empty bottles:
1989 Château Clinet
1985 Château Gruaud Larose.
It's a lovely house with a backed-up sink.
My steel snake goes about ten feet, then hits a solid blockage.
In the crawl space I find the sewer pipe has a rusty joint.
You develop an instinct about these things:
the joint's the problem.
Lying on my back I reach up...
... and just from the touch
... of my hand
... the drain
CRACKS
as if hit with a mallet.
Worse, the pipe sags downward and pours a stream of
sewer water onto my face and into my astonished mouth.
My immediate impression is a vintage of poor clarity, attacking the nose with a barnyard bouquet that is earthy and complex. A brawny presence on the tongue, an intense structure, robust and chewy with a lingering finish, strongly metallic, leaving an unforgettable aftertaste.
I crawl out sputtering.
Shirt soaked.
I stink.
Back home I gargle,
change my clothes,
gargle,
wash my hair,
gargle,
wash again,
GARGLE,
scrub,
gargle gargle GARGLE
like a geyser at Yellowstone.
Not one molecule of sewer water could possibly remain
inside my mouth, yet still I taste it.
Dr. Wisler returns my call: "I hear you had a surprise shower."
He says I need a tetanus shot and might as well get a hepatitis, too. Otherwise, no worries.
After the shots, now in the evening of that same day,
I return to the lovely house, fix the drain, leave a bill.
A month later I phone them, remind them to pay.
A caretaker says they've gone to It-a-lay.
They won't return this vintage year.
Me, I prefer beer.
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...
