He comes when I call,
unlike the other men in my life,
and does exactly what I ask of him,
so devoted that I like to pretend
money will not change hands.
In his khaki slacks and labeled shirt,
he is comfortable with me.
His calloused hands know all
about springs and sprockets,
wrenches and regulators.
Like the old appliances he adores,
he is a little worn but always dependable,
a mature man who knows what women want
done, he never talks me out of my desires
to have the soggy faucet tightened,
the oven door adjusted. Last spring,
when the washer bolted on its clutch
in the middle of a rinse cycle, he laughed
with me about the weight of private things
dripping wet and needing to be moved.
Today, when the deep freezer died, he smiled,
as he helped me haul ingots of frozen meat
into ice chests, showed me how to pack them
in newspaper so nothing would spoil,
while he retrieved the replacement part,
a simple device no one else carries any more,
the solution that is, like everything he tells me,
exactly what I want to hear.