A Home

    His house is a house seeing the cyclonic displacement of books half without names on the spines, half with, and half open drawers with unsorted papers brimming over the edges, strewn wicked across the floors before the eye wall. He will deal with it. The garage is a room with clouded plexiglass windows and unswept floors. Damp food crumbs under a pile of pots and pans and ceramic bowls with wildflowers occupy the sink as it were like an overcrowded bar across a campus on a Thursday night when the students won't give a damn about anything. He will deal with these also. It's not terrible, I've seen worse. I'll get used to it.

    The outside is as hopelessly promising as the inside. There's these white or pale green shingle-like patches on the shingles and old siding mingling on the side of the house that is slightly overgrown by spidery-looking ferns and a terracotta walkway limping to the driveway, neither of which saw cleaning besides a carpet of propeller seeds or sand from small anthills (if I could consider that clean) since they were installed. Above it's wet white cotton. Or half-melted snow slush like on the road two days after the wintry mix. Bleak. Not the dreadful kind, though. A strange kind he thinks, the kind that is complimenting to the events the day before. What is he supposed to do with it now?

    He pictures the men in the big yellow outfits in the house covered in plastic. Sometimes it's only one room and sometimes it's the whole building. That's what it's often like, but it is odd because this time not the plastic nor the men are there. It's airing itself out. Finally. He doesn't think much of it. Won’t last forever. Except she thinks about the neighbors. Please don't ask me. I don't want to talk to you. The neighbors are a little intrigued in a variety of ways with these looks on their faces such that he can't exactly tell how they feel. It probably won't matter. I know what you're thinking: not again. Don't talk to me. The house has a face with a freckle here and there and some wrinkles. It doesn't look much different than the rest. We used to clean it ourselves fine and then things happened and the shingles and seeds and ferns and plastic. The yellow men sometimes help but sometimes leave the inside in smithereens, however, and he is forced to clean it. The neighbor walks past and asks about if I need a hand. Go away. “I’m a little busy right now.” The inside of the house is a little better now but it may or may not be tossled by the yellow men in the following days. At least they are friendly to him. I think. It's like he knew them for years.

    The men spawned the hurricane earlier. “I thought the problem was fixed,” he says. “I don’t think so,” I say. “Why are they here again?” “Maintenance.” “If the thing is gonna break again, why--” and then a large crash comes from the living room and the house is dismal and disheveled as the men in the big yellow outfits are talking nonsense and “where are you” and doing nothing and I am racking my head looking for him so I can grab him and ask us to fix the house again but he and the men are gone again and I am left to clean the mess myself. Whatever happened to sitting, knickknacks, him, work, sitting outside, empty sink, candles, reading, notepads, notepads with writing, what have you, cooking, the sound of a lawnmower, writing, television, wet bars, patios, talking, friends, talking and drinking with friends, notes, fridge magnets, clean glass, the lake, life, flowers, the broom, pesticide, hanging out, us, nothing, bro, small things. Now it’s walk, hands akimbo, arms crossed, looking, take out, motel, shortcuts, who knows what.