Paying a Blind Man to Wash and Wax My Car
Maybe they’re right, friends who mock me,
but there he was at my door knocking,
handsome in dark shades, a cane, bucket
and sponge by his feet. Legally, he shrugged,
though I hadn’t asked—the Dodge was a mess.
I tugged the rubber hose across the grass,
then went inside. An hour passed, maybe two
before he rang to tell me he was through,
and there, the car gleaming from the curb.
Thirty bucks (and a half-day) later I discovered
the other side: dirt, grime. Am I a fool?
Over time (still asking), I’m drawn to dual
narratives, half-truths seen and unseen—
mottled parts of me that don’t come clean.