Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Four
Tenants splash and float
in the pool. A baker of a day.
Sweat streams as I work.
The dude trashed the unit.
Holes in two doors.
A chair rammed through a wall.
Faucet ripped out, flooded.
The new occupant, a single woman,
Japanese, has a voice like music.
On a pedestal she spreads
an embroidered pillow
with ornamental blanket
on which she beds
her Princess telephone.
There will be no trouble here.
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 Four of a series.