a man calls

a man calls
you on the phone.
he needs work done.
he tells you that you worked
for him twenty years
ago. he says his name.
you remember him.
he had nylons and garter
belts and long leather
boots, all his,
always hanging in
his shower, drying out
from some escapade the night
before. he was drunk
or near drunk quite often
by mid afternoon. white wine.
sometimes he wore nail
polish, or had forgotten
to take off his lipstick
when he came to the door
in his shiny robe.
sometimes there were
people sleeping in
the tub, or on the balcony
slouched over
in a yellow lawn chair.
everyone seemed to have
had a mustache.
he would often hand me
a check and sign it.
just fill in the number of
what you want, he'd
say, then go back to sleep
as you rolled out a ceiling,
or hung another strip
of flock black wallpaper
onto the dining room walls.