So there eccentric landlord
playing deaf, playing
mute …?
The ears work! (says wife) stubborn as
I don’t know what. In dark rooms
his grey eyes glint like a cat’s,
seize suddenly on this or that
the way a cat seems to hear …
What more can I say — we suspect.
I was furious for
years, then it
went. He sits grey-eyed
light from the skylight
a white axle
tools shot with sharpness and the man
as if waiting, the stilled merry-go-round.
But one year (the words flutter on her)
a drought year like this one but worse,
the well dried. We saw him bent over it
his head hidden down it
and shouting and shouting
we couldn’t tell what
for the echoing. A week or more, it came.
He does all we need, and more.
There are voices enough, God knows.

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