the plumber

he carries in
his heavy satchel
of tools,
rounded and dark
instruments, well
worn and used,
the long lengths
of pipes and fittings,
on his shoulders,
his clothes stricken
with grease, his
face not unhappy,
or sad, but resigned
to his day, to coffee
and driving, to
finding leaks,
the broken valves
that sing to him
softly with a hiss,
or the coughing
of the stuffed throats
of drains, the slosh
of small waves, too late
to save. and if he's
thinking of his wife,
or lover, or famine
in the world, or how
unkind the world
can be, as his thick
hands curl and twist
with wrenches,
you wouldn't know,
and you wouldn't ask.