Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Twelve
Birthday, August 19, 2010
Disrespected by English Departments,
Yet pleasantly I putter at Plum Court Apartments.
I free a bath fan mucky with dust,
loosen a tub drain hobbled by rust,
sand smooth some plaster where it feels warty,
silence a chair squeak with WD40
while among computer cables running through hallways,
a cat chases a marble.
Play is play.
Back home, late, family gathers. As the honoree,
once rising young author
now turning sixty-three,
I blow out candles, cut cake slice by slice.
Unsung bard, good handyman,
I'm twenty-one thrice.
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call
handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units —
or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in
a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor
league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. This is Part Twelve — and the end — of the series.