THE FIRST QUESTION OF THE DAY
It was the morning
And I’d already eaten breakfast.
I went outside to twist a few knobs,
On the irrigation hoses,
As I was instructed to do by the owners.
While sneaking carefully
through the dew-wet bushes
on one of the garden terraces,
the wine cellar man saw me and said,
“do you have a problem?”
I stopped for a moment,
considering the question.
He’d said it like he’d asked for a pencil,
Like he hoped I would.
“what kinda problem do you mean?
I’m sure I’ve got one somewhere in here,”
I said, reaching into my pockets.
He stood there, eyeing me suspiciously,
Maybe wondering why
I was creeping around in the garden like that.
“why,” I asked him.
“do I look like I have a problem?”
He gave it a moment.
“you look like you might.”
I glimpsed down at myself.
Nothing seemed too out of order.
But there it was.
And there I was,
having that look about me,
not for the first time.
I had that look
Like a carpenter would have a hammer.
I shrugged and moved along,
Spun the knobs on the hoses.
It was the beginning of just another day
In the strange thing that was my life.