HANDYMAN

 

He visits twice a year,

calls twice a month.

His seething demeanor

has made him lonelier

than he knows.

He is quite bothered

by my squeaking bathroom door.

 

“I never noticed it,” I say.

 

He needs a hammer

to loosen the pin.

 

He pounds.

My dog cowers.

 

I am reminded of other men

trying to be helpful

when I hadn’t asked.

 

My brother returns

with a rancid expression

I recognize,

surprisingly alive

in my nerve endings.

 

“It won’t budge,” he says.

 

I think of our childhood

bedrooms, separated by a

shared bathroom whose

doors didn’t lock.

 

Here we are, old,

having secreted away

what we glimpsed of each other,

the same for it, and not.

 

“It really doesn’t bother me,” I say,

and take the hammer.