Jack of All Trades

The screen door kept smacking me
in the heels as I carried the boxes
up the stairs for you to put away.
I tried to mess with the piston
but it was cold and dark
and the screwdriver was buried
in the back of the car. We’d already
hung the blinds, I got the storm
windows closed to cut down
on the draft and muffle the sound
of the McDonalds drive-thru, scrubbed
the shower while you wiped out
the kitchen cabinets, put new
batteries in the smoke detector,
and made sure both doors would lock.
The dog paced and paced and paced,
confused and sick with a bad liver,
and we discussed how you would keep
him during the week, I would have him
on the weekends. You held him
and rubbed his chest. I brought in the last
of your stuff, told you I still loved you
and if that door hit me one more time
I would kick it off its fucking hinges—

then I drove home without the radio on,
stepped into our empty house and broke down
when the door closed softly behind me.

Brady Buchanan is a poet and musician from Western Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared in The Bridge Lit Journal, The Watershed Journal, and the North/South Appalachia Anthology. He uses his experiences in the woods and small towns of the region to inspire his work.