the work

I used to do all the work
myself
the owner of the house says.
he's holding a cup
of coffee, squinting
at the rising sun as he
remembers.
he shows me
his garage full
of tools, neatly hung
where he wants them to be.
half empty gallons of paint
tapped shut.
stacked against a wall.
paint brushes too.
yard tools.
mowers and clippers,
hoes.
a straight line of screwdrivers.
I used to do all the work
myself he says,
pointing at his work
bench, hands on hips,
wearing his overalls,
neatly pressed,
with suspenders.
but I don't now.
I can't anymore.
I have ladders too, he says.
they're around
back, let me show you.