Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Eleven
Ladder Work: One
Mrs. Robert T. Bunn
The proper lady, powdered,
introduces herself as
"Mrs. Robert T. Bunn"
so already it's going to be weird.
Eighteen feet up a ladder I unscrew
a floodlight when, how freaky,
I almost fall.
Glass shreds my arm
like I fought with a tomcat
Blood trickles down chin and neck.
What have you done?"
says Mrs. Robert T. Bunn.
Ladder Work: Two
Climb a ladder to inspect
the roof and suddenly
above dreck and sprawl
here’s a crisp
Surrounded by sunlight.
Cooled by sea air.
Thank you, warm star.
Much obliged, San Francisco Bay.
A ridge of golden mountain casts
over busy rolling beads
of bullshit traffic.
I feel blessed…
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. Most of the events took place in
the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Eleven of a