From “Fixer”

René and I were doing some limb work,

Noah says, on the tree out front, that twisty

pine at the corner of the house, taking

a couple widows off it, and dad drives up

drunker than I’ve ever seen him,

or close, in a red Ford Focus, gives me

the biggest hug he can considering

he dropped 20 pounds since I last saw him,

and I’m the ground guy, holding the rope,

puts his arm around my shoulder and just

kind of stands there, neither of us

saying a word, not knowing after two,

three minutes he’ll get back in the car

and drive off, last time I’ll ever see him,

’cause when you’re the ground guy you got

to focus on the guy in the tree, you mess up

and that limb swings out and hits the line

bang the whole block goes dark.

 

——

We should have hired someone,

I say. Me and Noah are dragging

your mattress out. Nah, he says,

we got it. We force it

through the doorway

and down the carpeted stairs.

We should have spared ourselves

the bucket of vomit,

the empty plastic vodka jugs,

the black rubber gloves the cops

left balled up on the dresser. Up

and in, he says, and we heave

the mattress over the green lip

of the dumpster. Might have been

worth the money—considering,

I say, the therapy bills later.

I’ll tell you what’s wrong

with us, he says, free of charge.