firewood

there is a knock
at the door and
i can hear the rumbling
of an old ford
pick up truck out
in the street. a woman
is in the driver's
seat, smoking a
cigarette while
she stares at her
phone pressing
letters and numbers.
the bed of the truck
is tilted low,
stacked with cords
of freshly cut wood,
and i open the storm
door and the man, his
hands black from bark,
his hat soiled with sweat
says loudly, red
eyed, asks if i would
like some fireplace
wood, but i tell him
i don't have a
fireplace, and then
he quotes me a price,
are you sure you don't
want any. it's a really
good price, and i
repeat, but i don't
have a fireplace
and he says that
they will be back
this way on saturday
if i change my mind.
okay, i tell him.
i'll think about it.