the contractor

you call a contractor
in to measure
your counters, ponder
your appliances
and floor. you want
to move a wall perhaps,
change the lighting.
he doesn't write anything
down though. instead,
he keeps talking.
pulling on his
short grey beard
telling you stories
about when he was
a child in pakistan.
you see the gold
in his teeth and a farway
look in his milky
blue eyes.
he tells you about
his goats, his six
children and how
he lost part of his
little finger in
a power saw accident.
holding up the rounded
nub of it for
you to see. it still
works, he says
wiogling it around.
he finally stops and
throws his head
back to laugh
and you say gently,
touching his arm, how much.
please. how much to
do all of this and when.
he nods seriously,
rubbing his dark hands
together. ahhh. he
says. the work. always
the work, isn't it?
i don't know.
but i will call you,
i will call you soon.
give me your number
again.