To Jeff

I

The grime on your hands
sticks to the handle of the
Unishears as you cut
the sheet metal that will
cover the side of the Air-Handler
and connect the Flex to the
air vents, cooling the suburban
two story
four bedroom
two and a half bath
comfortable and stylish
home.

When the job is finished
we ride in your white industrial van,
“Campbell Cooling, LLC” painted on the side
with the HVAC license plate.

Smoke from your cigarette
splashes against the windshield
just like it did yesterday,
and the days before that
this summer driving between jobs
when you’d share stories of your life:


II

You were twenty, a machinist
working in your father’s shop.
High school was a burden,
since you’d take over the shop someday;
besides, you liked working better.

You started drinking heavily
when the machine shop closed down
but no one in your family
wanted to confront you.


You got married, your wife drank too
and you spent most of your money
on booze and USA Golds.

You crashed the car
with the transmission you just installed,
got pulled over drunk three of four more times
when your wife left.

You lived in a group home for
recovering alcoholics and addicts,
and worked full time but they still made you
mop the floor every night
because everyone had a chore.

Your parents came to your graduation
from the local voc-tech school, proud
that you didn’t drink any more
that you had a steady job.


III

Your new girlfriend is a recovering addict
she tells you to reduce your stress,
and yells at you when you forget
the four-year anniversary of
the day she quite drugs.

Your basement apartment
floods when it rains a lot
and mold grows everywhere;
You smoke two packs a day
to keep from drinking,
which makes the place
even mustier, and danker.

You show up to work at seven
and work until six every day,
and usually you work Saturdays too
but you only jokingly complain
that you haven’t had a vacation
in over two years.

You blow up aliens on your new
Play Station that your girlfriend
insisted you buy to help you relax,
but you tell me that having to escort the nuclear bomb
through the military base just
stresses you out more.

You talk about selling your parent’s house,
buying a little place for you all to live.
You joke about your brother,
how you used to tease him for going to college,
but now he makes a ton of money.

You work for fifteen dollars an hour
with no benefits,
trying to repay student loans.