DIY

Stop. Dangerous. DIY.

The Harry Homeowner

who preceded us at this address

had limited skills

that he insisted on using

to render this house

a stationary time-bomb

waiting for ignition.

The dangling wire under the eaves,

connected to nothing but a power source,

sparking away, unobserved--

the faucet in the backyard

(spouting water at 140 degrees)

lying in wait for the unwary gardener--

the multiple threats to life and limb

(so many more)

that he deemed good enough,

and cheerfully crossed off his list.

 

Waiting at the Medical Building

 Canes and walkers and wheelchairs, oh my!

Slow steps, helping hands,

folks holding doors. Cars

stopping at the curb near the entrance. Ramps

that are raised and lowered. Slowly.

Carefully. Bent heads, looking down,

making sure, being cautious

because we are one fall

away from dependence

away from life in recovery,

condemned

to doctors and physical therapy,

to worlds with no stairs,

to sensible shoes,

elastic stockings,

and the old folks' shuffle.

Epitaph for a Dying Car

I hope you don't take this wrong,

but you were ugly:

A  squat and cantankerous troll 

thwarting me at every turn,

demanding attentions of which

I was incapable.

You filled a need;

that was all.

Yet amid the stops and starts,

the breakdowns and the curses,

we were irrevocably tied,

manacled by mutual dependence.

It's over now, and

it is somehow sad to see you

broken and mechanically betrayed.

Others are sleeker, more responsive,

but we had stories, we had adventures.

I'll miss you. But not too much.