Something Like Instructions

His name in ballpoint, the letters tall

and careful, pressed into the inside cover

of a Reader's Digest home repair guide —

water-stained spine, a dollar.

I paid. Didn't open it again.

Stood in the parking lot

with it face-down against my leg,

the way you hold something

you're not sure you want to carry.

He fixed things without saying he would.

That was the grammar of most of our years:

a leaking joint gone quiet overnight,

a sticking drawer, suddenly smooth.

Nothing announced. Nothing explained.

I drove home with the book on the seat.

It's on my desk now.

I haven't opened past his name.

There's something I keep circling.

He's still alive.

I don't know why that changes the shape of anything

but it does.