always broken inside these four walls.
I believe my house is a mystic
Vortex where kitchen appliances
are sent Out to pasture.
to the tune of $500 a month.
I scramble to pull funds from
Home equity loans and savings accounts.
I redeem scavenged scrap metal and pop cans.
Sometimes, I try to repair it myself
Which usually ends up with
power tools tossed along the tile
And loads of gooey
cement nails from a tube
adhering to plates and pliers alike.
My dad provides advice on
Solenoids, switches and finds
replacements parts online.
He reminds me to check
the conduit for cracks.
And water supply lines for leaks.
I reach a particularly hot point as
The repairmen shake their heads,
‘Oh, this company really made some lemons.
They went out of business last year.’
I wash my dishes and clothes by hand
Hang the dripping jeans
on the fence to freeze dry
In the mild January gloom.
Dad emails Do It Yourself sites
For garage doors, garbage disposals, ovens.
“It’s broken this time, Dad, really broken”
He snail mails schematics for water heaters
He’s not letting this one go without a fight.
‘Sometimes internal circuits just can’t be fixed.’
This time I think I refer to our broken selves.
This time searching for any solution
To the inscrutable phenomenon
of that which Cannot be restored.