REPAIR JOB

My life seems a series of repairs -
radiator on the Volvo leaking
water heater broken heart
solar panel charge controller
starving musician son flat tire
virus-infected computer, one thing
after another, or too often in clusters
of flying gears and lost pieces,
worn parts and malfunctions.
Did I mention the broken heart?

The Buddha teaches that nothing lasts.
Entropy says that all systems lose energy.
My life tells me it's a good idea to
always carry duct tape and baling wire.
So, my fingers are always sticky
and rusty twisted ends of wire
stick out of my shirt collar.
I don't know how long this fix will last.
Already leaks seep from the seams of tape
and the bands of wires are crude sutures
that barely hold the pieces together.
It'll have to do while I wait
for Hirschfield's "proud flesh" of scar tissue
to darken beneath the soft steel
and shiny gray bandages of this
imperfect attempt at self-repair.

I'm prone to the compulsion
of most men to fix stuff, to make right
the broken, real or perceived,
to not let something simply be
but to rescue, repair and improve
whether needed or not.
Wisdom comes in knowing whether
to ride up on your horse and save
the day or the damsel, to tinker
a problem into submission,
or
to keep your hands in your pockets
and your mouth shut, do nothing
but listen, and let the world heal itself
and maybe, if you're lucky, you with it.



© 2006 by Richard W. Todd

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