to see what can be done about my small
squared yard
surrounded by fence and brick.
i look out my window
and see weeds.
i see snakes and birds, squirrels.
something that looks like
a bush or the beginnings of a tree.
i think about trimming it all down
before Vincent arrives, but i don't.
he peers out the window when
he finally gets to my house.
he's wearing white pants
a pale blue shirt and smells
like lavendar. he puts his hands on
his hips and says oh my.
then looks at me and asks how
big is my budget. i'm not sure,
i tell him, why.
well, he says. for starters we need
a blow torch and then
a back hoe. do you need those
rusty ole ladders back there?
and that wrought iron table,
did your grandmother die and give
you that as part of the inheritance.
do you collect old paint cans?
why so many?
we can get rid of those, i tell him.
do you want to go out there
and take a look, take some measurements
or something.
his eyes go wide. oh, no, no.
he pulls out a pair of opera glasses
and squints into them.
please. i can see just fine from
up here. i'm sorry, he says, but can
i sit down. i need to catch my breath.
do you have any spring water,
sparkling?
no. tap? cup of coffee?
french press?
folgers, i tell him.
oh. well,
can you slice a lemon and put
it in a glass with ice water...maybe
a sprig of mint if you have it.
i bring him his drink, as he takes
out his brochures and note books
holding laminated photos of yards.
so, he says, sipping his drink.
what's your style. Greek, Roman?
French Renaissance?
hmmm. i say. i sort of like how that
gas station up the street did
their grounds. the Exxon station.
do you have any aspirins, he asks me.
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