Commission

The rain rolls from the clogged gutters. I wish I’d drank the last of that whiskey squirreled away with the cooking oil, the big pot for potatoes, the cookie sheets. The hinge on one of the upper cabinets fell apart, and I closed the corner of the dangling door inside it facing mate. One door holding the other until I find parts, learn to operate them. For now, I’m dry, still. I listen to the earth collect what it’s owed by the sky. There are no gifts. The clouds offer their hearts but hold to the receipts. My wife said she’d call before church in the morning, but I know she won’t. The rain will have passed to cool breezes and flooded streets, and six missionaries are coming to plead their cases. They’ll play slideshows of foreign lands, their neat, straight families in tow. They are selling all they own and going. I’d like to hold that debt, but my heart stoves up. The rain swallows and shifts across the rooftop. There’s been no thunder, but the dogs curl at my feet. We’re all learning to sleep even when noise and light and every endless moment walk close enough to lay hands, pray the last of that old life out of us.