In the window lies a once broken metaphor.
Shelves visible through the window bear
various goods, tagged and ordered seriously,
waiting for their owners' return.
To pay.
To pray the Iambics have been properly readjusted,
Effusement at the old-gray, rhyme-say, old-man
fix-can hand and head immersed in work, savior did his job.

At night's passing, the window glass fairly glows
With re-bored, re-stored, master's touch aligned
and magically refined Muse fodder.
I avoid passing by there, especially at night.
Like the dentist's office, it waits until the pain grows
so obsessive I can't sleep at night,
from the pounding,
from the unkempt rounding, rounding
sounding in my head and jaw,
in something that I thought I say upon the page.

Monday morning’s worst.
Those door-locked, hard fought phrases pile up
on Sunday, rimming paper baskets across town,
fire hazards of the heart, waiting for a spark.

Yes, the line is long on Monday.

Friday is a nothing day.
all the owners feel the right to play with new iambics,
blanks, and other handy verse,
feeling all the while the week is done,
and last weeks' fateful curses will have died,
amongst some new, and luck-filled ritual just tried
to check the fall,
to breach the wall of stumbles,
that we fall "from lofty heights".

But Fixit Man knows better.

He closes shop at four assured,
demurred experience and wisdom heard
down through the years,
formed with his rueful face.

Yes, a mom and pop operation
without the bomb of realization
that despite the chain store fashion,
our empty hopes at passion,
fame and structured words

The big chain stores' corner booth,
"all under one roof" attempts
be damned
the fixit shop can never be replaced.

02/08/2007

Posted on 02/09/2007
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers