​Measure, Mark, Measure


Amy says I remind her of the first husband, 
Larry the hippie. Married at 16, pregnant. 
Then I grew up and he didn’t, she 
laughs, and nothing wrong with that.
Her current husband makes millions.
Amy is classy not flashy with an acre and mansion 
which she manages like a small business. 
Gardeners, housecleaners. Me, handyman. 

I’m building a gazebo next to the pool 
while Amy glides a few laps 
supple as a seal, then from a lawn chair 
watches me work. Larry was a carpenter, too,
she laughs, and nothing wrong with that.
She lights up a joint. 
I ask where her child is now.
Fresno. Just had her thirtieth birthday. 
Would you believe? I’m a grandmother! 
I tell Amy she doesn’t look a day over 35.

Measure, mark, measure. Saw, hammer.
She removes her top. Are we okay?
I tell her we’re fine. 
She stares at me hard. Do I still look 35?
Yes, I say. (I want my pay.)

Measure, mark, measure. Saw, hammer.
Sun-dried Amy stands, checks my eye, 
smiles, straightens the bottom of her bikini, 
walks to the house with a wiggle. 
A lovely lady. Should I follow?
I don’t. 

Would you?​