You sort tools to gather enough for a kit
to supply the car. You turn to pick up a
set and knock another onto the floor.
Tools spill out and scatter with loud pings
across the concrete basement. Observe.
You grin and pick them up, returning them
to their sorted order. You notice how still it
remains on the inside and how you quietly
are the witness to your elbow's one erratic
movement. You can be still and still stumble.
You take a storm window to be fitted for
new glass. Returning home with your prize
you find the old frame and new glass do not
match. The cut was made using dimensions
that were misread by the cutter. Others stumble.
You return to the glass shop for the alteration
and along the way notice a cyclist with one
foot and two old friends standing on the street
corner with signs that protest America's part in
violence here and there. People are different.
Back home you reassemble the storm window
and climb a ladder to reattach it to its original
position. You drop two screws into the bed of
dry leaves and a hunt in the basement uncovers
replacements. Noticeably absent: obssession.
You eat brunch at 1:30, after chores are done,
and you savor the food after a long fast: turkey
pastrami sandwich and green tomatoes followed
by cantaloupe and cottage cheese. Color you
stuffed with delight, and feeling over-indulgent.
At day's end you look back at these and other
simple events with wonder that you got through
them with so little commotion of mind save for
one imperfect word, you noticed. You whispered
Shit as a blessing over that ill-fitting glass.
