the bicycle fixer

the bicycle fixer
leans under my kitchen window
tinkering away
on his kid's two-wheeler

while five of his other brats
circle around him on their bikes
chanting with the cadence of sugar addicts

daddy!
daddy!
daddy!
daddy!

i don't know why he picked
underneath my kitchen window to fix a bike

we could call it careless incivility on his part
and bad karma or shit luck on mine

but i don't like the feeling
of being in a fishbowl this evening

having this asshole hear my conversations
while i fix drinks
or start tinkering with the evening's dinner

having someone hear me fart loud and ponderous
while in the privacy of my own home

there is a whole block
for him to park his fat, domesticated ass and fix a bike

a whole block for his idiot, inbred children
to circle and scream their adolescent inanities

there is a whole world away from my window
for this kind of bullshit super-hero
norman rockwell, buddy-dad nonsense

i think to lean my head out
and tell him as such

but instead i stand in the kitchen
boiling over with anger and frustration
letting the low road summon me once again

and then i shout

fuck!
fuck!
fuck!
fuck!
fuck!

with my eyes closed
for a solid minute

and when i open them
it's almost like magic

because the bicycle fixer
and his idiot children

have suddenly vanished
into thin air

and gone away.