Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                         Page 24
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I knew nothing about roofs
nor how to repair them,
but it was a job and I needed one.
Mario, the master builder,
was genial and patient with me,
showing me how to do this and that,
his massive arms moving delicately
to the explanations—no, I never
became Robin to his Batman,
but my skills improved a bit
as well as my attitude—Mario made
the labor in the heat, often as hot
as Hades, seem sort of worthwhile.
“You have the soul of a carpenter,”
he once said watching me battle
the staple gun and somehow getting
the sucker to do the nailing right—
yes, we had a laugh over it, just
the way my wife laughs these days
when I agree to her request
to help her with the dishes—every
time after the drying my putting
some member of the dishware in
the wrong spot, her forbearance
towards me never wavering. She
understands. She would have liked Mario.

  Tim Suermondt