Keeping Track of My Genius
Jack Stewart
I sometimes find him in the attic,
lying on his side, contemplating
the insulation. Or just staring at
the beams, trying to get the measure
of force and distribution. He turns up a lot in the garage.
I know he loves me. But if I look
away for an instant, he's off,
and I worry that he won't come back
(or when he does he'll have no taste,
gone in for some fad I'll have to bear,
and every move he makes a test).
But usually he's charming,
following me to the cafe
and lying on the awning so carefully
as not to make it sag, only
casting a slight shadow on my table.
Of course I act as though I
haven't seen a thing. He only wants,
I think, to do what can't be done.
Why just yesterday, for instance,
I found him going through the public trash,
figuring how to fill a bottle
some angry drunk had smashed.
My genius has been wandering lost in the trees for a very long time. If you see her, please drop a few bread crumbs so she can find her way home. I really need her help with my novel.
I spent the last four and one half hours soldering, hammering, sanding, oxidizing, and it was a glorious time! My little finger is protesting right now, though. I've learned I have to be very careful of it when I'm working, since I still can't feel the outer side. The tip still can't bend on its own volition, but it's geting better. I think.
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