A year last summer Flea repaired my life--
drilled mortises, installed a new screen on
the porch door and stopped the damn
leaking of the bathtub faucet. The basics
atwhich I had proved singularly hopeless.
He worked silently, the strong chin steady
as he turned the Phillips head screws.
Measure twice, cut once, and the joints
fit snug. The simple miracle of carpentry.
When he finished, he wiped his big hands
on a towel with a cluster of grapes on
the corner. I watched awhile, admiring
the handyman’s grace, how he patiently
put my house in order. Now he sits at
home, watching the frozen fields. The
mitre lieson a bench in failing light. He
says he doesn’t want us to see him
this way. ”Look to the hinges. Remember
me this way”. I understand. And so I do.