It’s roofers all down the block, but not at my house, with the leaky garage roof, and probably leaky other places we just haven’t discovered yet. Our roofer is on the way. And I’m waiting. I’ve been waiting so long birds are landing on me. One’s making a nest in my hair. And all of it translates into the same message, rubbing at the edges with a damp cloth, that the search is never ending, in the absence of evidence, or that everything is evidence, or both, as successive approximations of the future as belated warnings in the form of celebrations and Friday lights. In the meanwhile, we settle for home repairs, covered by insurance, like a patient mother coming to the room of the crying child. It’s OK. It will all be OK. And we become calm. We look up and down the block, hopefully.
Later, at work, we’ll begin moving books back into our newly carpeted and painted office, like a Max Leiva sculpture mixed with Wes Anderson, which I wouldn’t mind seeing, so now I’m kind of looking forward to it, until the couple hours of boxes will undoubtedly convince me to go back to my retirement planning, which currently stands at ten years, at which time I’ll get to Venice or maybe write a sonnet, but not both. One has to moderate one’s dreams. Otherwise I’d be running up and down the halls singing “Oort cloud! Oort cloud!” to the modular couches I rearranged yesterday, figuring what’s outside my office is my jurisdiction, and anyway it’s a better approach now to my office, which I like to keep open because a closed door isn’t very interesting. Maybe a puzzle or something. But I’d rather a glimpse, something anyway that says I’m not so utterly alone.
