Fix Me

 

Fix Me

I don't know what I really want. I keep
mooning over old houses online but hearing
a 1950's TV announcer: We interrupt this

program to bring you a bulletin… Tragedy
on all five channels! Now we escape it
with viral recipes, word games, and this real

estate site: vintage homes full of porch swings
and wicker, giddy wallpaper, chrome
and marble bathrooms, beveled mirrors that

want re-silvering. Penny tile, black and white,
cracked. I'm lost in a post-election adagio
that's neither calming nor cathartic. Its violins

make me cry and I hate being overwhelmed.
The news is a soggy towel, a drawn-out misery
of rain on old snow. Sure, we could buy that

1915 neo-colonial—solid roof, all its original
woodwork—except why? We fixed up our own
home years ago. But see this butler's pantry,

this deep porcelain sink… Suppose it's just paint,
HVAC? (As everything else in this weary
country lines up, moaning No! Fix me, fix me.)