I want a man who can fix things:
solder and suture the mechanical
entrails of appliances, redeem
beef stew from too much salt, sew
coat pockets so I don't lose
my wallet with a picture of him
rehanging the chandelier
that dropped like a meteor when I danced
lambada beneath it. I'm high
maintenance, a natural disaster-
light bulbs shatter when I pass, toilets
overflow, children next door in bright white rooms dream
of car collisions, collapsing
buildings. I want a man
who can install a notch filter
at the end of a coaxial cable
for free access to the Playboy channel-
which we'll watch while he fixes me
Capellini de Mare, removes knots
from my cataclysmic hair, makes me come
with his fingers alone. A man with hands
the span of a plate, but fingers so skin-
sensitive they can shave my legs, the summits
of knees without a nick. Replace
strings on my Martin then play it like he's
dialing my number. Not a plumber
or a surgeon but a fix-it man
who repairs and installs at no extra fee.
