At the back door. Mexicans on the lawn. Doing work. I would do. And I am paying them because I was already subscribed. And the only things I back out of are awkward. Instances of conversation. They're edging by the paving stones. Talking amongst themselves.
The clothes lines are undisturbed behind them. Plastic clothes pins sun faded. Springs rusted. The only thing hanging out there are the children I never had. In private. I'm willing to admit the fact. Of the matter of our separation is not up for open discussion. Ever.
To the stairs I do not climb I am a bit of a laughing stock. In the call and response trash. Talking floor boards are just about the worst company a man could ask. For honest opinions. I return to the slats at the front window. The blinds. They were on sale.
The cat used to sleep in the sun by my feet. Rubbing in the carpet. Slipper free. Pawing at a stain from a previous marriage. And home owner. I simply have to ask. If Mexicans do carpets. But I know what I should really do is take my cup of coffee elsewhere.
