(I've never been able to make tabs work in Blogger, so the formatting is slighly different than what you see here.)
Friday nights are the best nights to meet men
at Home Depot. I travel down the aisles like a tourist
in the kingdom of tools looking for a weekend warrior,
someone a full score younger than me helping re-stake
friend’s a fence post, or building a rocking horse for his niece.
I need wrenches, screws, a drill—things taken when my ex
left for good.
Home Depot, home of the handy,
the amateur professional, and me with my Hi,
can you help me? look. Give me the guy
with the ratty college shirt, slim build, and galvanized grip,
a real DIY-er with the I-haven’t-shaved -in-two-days-grin.
Can you help me? I need hardware to mount
my flat screen. The smell of cedar is everywhere.
I’m fingering an edger in a wall full of edgers.
And what about spackle?
I need a sledgehammer.
Walls torn down and put back up. A fresh coat of paint
on new life. How unfair to be in this beautiful store
with its rows and rows of normal. I need a satin finish.