***

The seventh day — a City truck appears

A little after sickly-faint, late-winter dawn

Then quickly quits the scene — am not surprised

Feel now that no one's coming, no one will

'Til all's engulfed, including me — best outcome

Sluice us all away, our whole damn dirty mess

But no, in time that City truck returns

Big chubby man in moonrise jeans appears

Explores, back toward the house, digs, delves

deploys some implements unknown

Some long and thin, some thick and green,

some that make vibrant sound

He labours a long hour as I spy,

try to sense what he's uncovered — bad or good —

by arcane language of his shifting thighs

And sturdy upper buttocks, plump and rosy white,

revealed by denim downslip, lit up by warm surprising sun

Already busy melting off the snow — less snow, more flow

from lake to shining lake across the former lawn

And then I glance away, look back, and . . . he is gone!

In panic mode I run out toward the gate, see him

Inside his City truck and flag him down — as he descends

I sense my evil maskless face exposed, gaze up at his —

but since we stand outside, in winter sun, ten feet apart

May still be safe? — he says he wasn't leaving, just completing

Paperwork, hands me the form, he's "giving me six days"

Six days I ask? To fix the problem, or City fines and charges will apply

He's pleasant, kind, tells me to get four quotes

Says he's dug out the problem spot, has marked the input route

But will not venture word on what the problem is

or, more crucial, what repair work ought to cost

A hundred? Thousand? Million? I cannot know

To get four quotes could easy take five days

Who knows how long the work itself might take

How can six days be thought to be enough

When City took full seven just to come?

***