From “Fixer”
By Edgar Kunz
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.
