Things around Here Need Attention

Like mother’s bonsai dying of thirst. Like my son making fireballs in the liv- ing room with a butane lighter and can of WD-40. Before I begin anything I have a ritual. I part my hair the way I like and splash pools of water on my face. But my comb has gone missing. And the bathroom sink is over- flowing with water. Not the familiar translucent color of water but a rusty blood colored kind, pouring onto the tile. The dogs are there, lapping up the stained puddles, their tails wagging like crooked windshield wipers. That can’t be good for them. “Somebody get me a basin wrench,” I say into an empty hallway. The dogs do their best but can’t keep up and soon the water surrounds. I stand in the last dry tile square. I wish I hadn’t worn dress socks. On the bathroom mirror is a sticky note which reads: kitchen light bulbs need replacing. Then I remember that the food in the refrigerator is past its expiration date. A woman I half recognize as my lover leans in the doorway and tells me the view from the observatory is a wonder on clear nights like tonight and that we should go have a look before God erases it. “Your socks are soaked,” my lover says. I remind her about the fallen backyard fence and the little known violence of raccoons against man. How the tarp covering the hole in our roof won’t hold during the coming Santa Ana winds. “It can wait,” my lover says, and turns off the light, the first few stars coming out in her eyes. “That and those and everything can all just wait.”