The Allbritten man comes twice a year.
He rings the doorbell, slips cotton
booties over his no name shoes,
and hands me a generic white business card
in a polite, quiet whisper. Within minutes
I covertly begin questioning his assertive cologne.
I mean what service man needs to smell as
conspicuous as a brook singing in a summer wood?
I am certainly insane, and deeply inhale.
Exactly what sort of a woman do you think I am?
The air waits for me, thank you very much,
until after I sign contractual paperwork,
– until after his flimsies come off, – and he’s
gone. I smell the apropos air-conditioning man.
for Real Toads