B HEATR
He is here again, his white van
and a butterscotch light for warnings.
He has come to see the heat pump. Yesterday
he came twice. Maybe he needed a part.
He kneels by the metal lungs
of the heat pump, doesn’t disturb
the wood thrush singing its E-OH-LAY. Or the wrens
ferrying insects to the nest in the dryer vent.
Lifting the panel, he kneels
in front, an altar of temperature.
I can’t see what he is doing,
spring leaves block my view.
He has removed the pump’s cover.
It is sitting in the drive. I didn’t see him
bring a new one, besides he is alone.
A new one is too heavy for one to carry.
It’s 2 pm, he is packing up. He gets out,
monkeys with the For Sale sign
at the end of the drive.
Puts it in his truck.
The house has been empty for a year,
its previous owners gone north.
On the deck, I listen, a yellow-throated warbler,
it will be leaving soon.
Chagrin River Review Fall 2012
