Fountain


Lived in a dream.
      In disgust.
      Disgust for what was.
      Somebody told him that?
      So many warnings, so much commentary—
      The viola shaped like a woman.  Thought it was the viola.  Somebody had told him. 
      Why not that?
      Weren't people always telling him to shut up?  Been going on since he was a kid.
      Maybe they were right.
      He might not concede it, but he could entertain it.
      Of course, there was work to be done.
      He idled here idly when he should have been working.
      He could be out raking the yard.
      He might be sharpening every scissors in the house.
      There was the yard fountain to assemble.
      He did not want to do anything.
      Not precisely true but the things he wanted to do were not the things he would do.
      In any foreseeable future.
      Hard to believe at the beginning of his life there were still a few people with horses and wagons who came around buying rags and junk.  He believed they sharpened knives and scissors as well.
      Tinkers, he thought, they were called.
      Old word.
      As in not giving a tinker's damn.
      Anyone know what that meant anymore?
      Viola shaped like a woman what was the use in knowing?
      Wouldn't mind looking at a woman.
      Instead of the yard, the scissors, the fountain.
      Like that game with the scissors.
      A gift to cut my ties from you, she'd said.  All those years ago.
      Another commentary.  Another commentator.
      No viola she.  No instrument, he supposed.
      She would not have tolerated the comparison.
      Nor, ultimately, him.
      He could get the fountain together but he was almost sure he could not get it to work.  Bad, broken cement pieces, finicky pump, poor line.
      Like anything gets old.
      Maybe it would rain and the rain enforce his idleness.
      Not absolutely sure what a viola was.
      That fountain—those pieces—50, 60 pounds apiece.
      Already—again—he ached.  
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