But oh the air
of the heir apparent
in coming home
to a glass of water
left by a guest:
You know
that you can't
drink from it
as hard as you'd like
to bob for apples
in her wake.
Had a foreman once
turned friend
turned father
turned nemesis
turned nightmare
who said
"Don't complicate
a glass of water."
As much as I mistrust him now
he's right.
Jupiter and Venus
are pegged
above the moon
tonight
naked
to the eye
like you
in a few more decades
all four sneering
at the marvels
of modern science
resuscitated simply
by the basic understanding
that no rain checks exist
in this universal cul-de-sac
and sometimes
there's blood.
You're probably pissed
that I vouched extensively
over the phone
as to how valid a candidate he was
for 20 emphatic minutes
when you were interviewing
potential tenants
for your shared rental apartment
since there was a ton
of work to be done
as promised in unwritten portions
of his lease that you might as well shred
at this point in your grievance.
I'm more pissed
that my adopted brother's in rehab again
and didn't reach out to me
before he surrendered his phone
so I've got no way of knowing
what it was this time
how close he came
or how he's doing
aside from what's chirped
down the line.
Godspeed with your eviction.
Our rent's always punctual
but we are not the same.
They ask what happened
after nearly five years
together, but not
as discovered
too late.
Shrugged shoulders
and blown lips
don't explain it
as well as this:
Today, stomping in my boxers
like on the best of Sundays
at what used to feel like home
I moved six houseplants
to different zones
of shade and sunlight
based on their color and turgor
instead of watching them
die.
That's my new response.
Final answer.
I'd propped the Remington against
a closet door frame
in the spare room
of what was my apartment again
since I could then
without question.
One night
bored by the film plot
with more holes in it
than my whiskey's cork
I repeatedly cycled the scattergun's action
in my lap on the recliner
ripping through the steel's shucking sound:
a song from a smoothbore
born in Ilion, New York
at the Turn of the Century.
Suddenly it jammed
leaving me with an ironbound headache
almost as jagged as newfound
single-income living in our inflated age.
After three hours of attempted repair
sore and sooty fingers
reached for the lamp switch
on my nightstand
wincing when a bloodied knuckle
rubbed brass unexpectedly.
Freshly defeated
by stubbornly stuck steel
for two nights
I slept exclusively on my side of the bed
though it didn't 't matter any longer
like sliding into fresh sheets
as she'd always treated as a holiday
that these days were going to waste.
Soft-spoken, middle-aged
Midwestern men with too much spare time
lulled me to sleep through Internet anonymity
safely tucked away from their wives
with tutorial videos made in their basements
about this 12-gauge albatross of yore.
I dreamt of traveling back in time
to kick the firearm's designer
in a place he'd always remember
perhaps hard enough to dissuade him
from over-engineering the model in question.
If only our pasts could be changed.
On the third day I succumbed
and rebuilt the debacle
with intentions of confessions
to ill-advised disassembly
made during gunsmith surrender.
To my surprise the slide ran smoothly
and all moving parts behaved in the choir.
I pumped it triumphantly
for the better part of a minute
until a half-inch shard of steel
shot from the ejection port.
The tune came to an end.
The tool no longer functioned.
I identified the broken component
and sourced a replacement online
grateful that this failure
had occurred in a safely controlled environment
as opposed to on a camping trip
in upstate bear country
that we'd never embark upon again.
Wood and steel.
Tried and true.
At least we weren't married
with kids and a mortgage.
That's what I told myself
while trying to decipher
the screws and springs
strewn about the floor
sharing the cause
of residual curse words
stuck in my throat
beside her name
and those of New England towns
I'd never be able to revisit
in this lovely, limited lifetime.
Currently reading:
"Rattle: Fall 2020".
