Put away the basin wrench or whatever
talisman you’re holding. That sink will get fixed,
you say, closing the undercupboard
with the regret of a layperson.
Sometimes you’re the layperson,
sometimes you’re the expensive mechanic
with a secret nest of wrens in his chest.
Treat everyone as if they’re a small bird
until you can prove otherwise. Don’t stop
watering the cyclamen. Naïve, sure,
an apartment is the opposite
of a nursery but the light’s near southern
& it grapefruit-colors a rug. See
a specialist about the spirits
coming through that door.
You are hallowed, not haunted,
not downstairs in the disused wing.
You’re nouveau in a baby of a country,
it’s a child, showing the place
to its parents, the gods, who are proud
their dearie made a tree.
The walls outside your room say have fate
& you chat to a bartender who gives you
free shots. It ends there for once, innocent,
the credits rolling early in Gramercy
then the 1, the 2, the 3.
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