[Barbara Baig]

Background: This is the first time I've posted here in over ten years, so gently does it, please, folks. (I write in accentual meter.) Second-to-last line is meant to be indented, but the Sphere software doesn't agree.

I live in very rural Maine, in the U.S., and so does the character in the poem.

Thanks for any comments you'd care to make.--
Barbara

The Repairman v. 2 (now, thanks to Richard and Glenn, with last line removed)

He knew right off what was wrong
With the fridge. He only had to listen
To the sound it was making—not quite right—
And he could hear exactly which note was missing.

Tall and stooped, fingers nicotine-stained,
Work boots, chinos, faded blue shirt
Worn almost to thread from too many washings;
On the left a tag with his name: Bert.

“Been forty years on this here job”—
That’s what he said, a tool in his hand;
“Frigidaire, Westinghouse, you name it,
I’ve fixed it—any model, any brand.”

A sudden scrape of metal on metal
As his steady hands began the repair;
“Easy—easy there,” he said,
Like a farmer soothing a panicky mare.

He showed me the part—traces of rust—
He gazed at it and shook his head.
“These days most people don’t want to fix nothin’—
They’d rather buy somethin’ new instead—

“These older models were solid and strong,
Built to last, in the U.S. A.—
Now it’s all made cheap in friggin’ China”—
He stopped, like that was all he dared say,

Then stared outside at a line of spruce,
And sighed. And spoke: “Built me a place
Years ago at the lake, and when work’s done
I’m goin’ there for some breathin’ space.”

He dug out a ciggie with practiced fingers,
Exhaled smoke. “Soon enough now
I’ll be goin’ up there”— a crooked grin—
“If I live that long…”


Note to Glenn: Your rewrite of the last stanza is very good. However, I want to hold on to my own last line, so I removed "thin" from S1.


The Repairman (original version)

He knew right off what was wrong
With the fridge. He only had to listen
To the sound it was making—not quite right—
And he knew exactly which note was missing.

Thin and stooped, fingers nicotine-stained,
Work boots, chinos, faded blue shirt
Worn almost to thread from too many washings;
On the left a tag with his name: Bert.

“Bin forty years on this here job”—
That’s what he said, a tool in his hand;
“Frigidaire, Westinghouse, you name it,
I’ve fixed it—any model, any brand.”

A sudden scrape of metal on metal
As his hand unscrewed the faulty part;
“Easy—easy there,” he said,
Like a farmer soothing a panicky mare.

He showed me the part—undistinguished steel—
He gazed at it and shook his head.
“Most people these days don’t want to repair.
They’d rather buy something new instead—

“These older models were solid and strong,
Built to last, in the U.S. A.—
Now it’s all made cheap in friggin’ China”—
He stopped, like that was all he dared say,

Then stared outside at a line of spruce,
And sighed. And spoke: “Built me a place
Years ago at the lake, and when work’s done
I’m goin’ there for some breathin’ space.”

He dug out a ciggie with practiced fingers,
Exhaled smoke. “Soon enough now
I’ll be goin’ up there”— a crooked grin—
“If I live that long…”
His eyes were sky-blue. His face was thin.