THE HEART BREAKS DOWN LIKE A MECHANICAL DEVICE
The repairman says mice have eaten through the wires. Thank you, I say – to the mice. Maybe now I can think without being interrupted. But first I must do something about the Styrofoam peanuts scattered all over the floor, and then there’s the fire to strum and the Bureau of Weights and Measures to contact. My wife won’t be any help. She’s hiding in our bedroom, embarrassed that we have grown children. I pat my pockets as if searching for cigarettes, or, if not cigarettes, symptoms. One side of me is cold and dark; the other side, cold and bright. I exchange melancholy glances with the deer head on the wall. The repairman says he’ll be back. Quiet, I say, the baby’s sleeping.
The Viceroy of Ouidah