There are some rotting joists in the crawlspace;
paper wasps nest behind the shutters
and in other surprising spaces;
barking deer think they own the property.
A window sash fell into my arms the other day
when it started to rain. The rotten subfloor
under the bed has been replaced, and the refrigerator
now makes ice; the bathroom door locks again,
and the bedroom closet door, now that I planed it, closes.
Our new rescue kitten Naomi happily uses the box spring
as a scratching post and oozes into the spaces
between us on the bed, purring furiously.
Eventually she’ll befriend the dogs
when the tinkle of her collar bell
no longer drives them mad.
Two dogs, a man with tools, a woman
sewing curtains, a cat stealing the pins,
and a boy who thinks he’s Iron Man
then Spiderman, who calls Mommy!
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!
from the tub just to tell you,
“I like bubbles.”
I cut and stained oak boards for bookshelves;
together, we painted the new shed.
The garden and chicken coop go up in the spring;
this fall, nuthatches and woodpeckers feast on the suet
you bring them every other week. Before the first snow
I must insulate the pipes, seal that foundation crack,
and of course, deal with this window sash;
and that should take us through next spring.
As you know,
my A.D.D. mind works
in fragments a name here and there
maybe later connecting with
a face, a place, a time
people fade in and out
like they do in dreams,
bits of lives lived a casino
full of noisy lights and bells
and fortunes constantly
splinters of roads
meeting at angles
the mosaic of me
to some new or rediscovered
version of a self
i only hope i’m
more than a fragment
to you more than sharp
pieces of cracked glass