Plum Court Apartments is a clean sanctuary offering
asylum from all but a select part of the natural world.
There are no plums. Nor trees of any sort.
Upscale units surround a concrete courtyard
engirdling a blue swimming pool. Interiors
are furnished in plush style, most seating aimed
at a television.
Each unit has a tiny yard fenced in wrought iron.
All summer, near-naked multi-colored mothers
will be toasting in harsh sunlight while children splash
in the pool. Kneeling, white-shirted, straw-hatted,
an old man will be planting bright flowers
in the itty bitty gardens.
Tinkering with a faucet here, a light switch there,
I wander wide-eyed, a tourist with a tool belt.
Or the short version:
You might call me a failure;
I call it a sport.
Regardless, here I am:
Handyman, Plum Court.
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 One of a series.