Pneumatic

The meter reader’s name is Martin.

He’s twenty-six,

lives with his wife and their new baby.

So he stops with us

for an hour rather than going home to

all that crying –

and that’s just the wife. He laughs

but it is thin.

Marla slices lemons.

I find tumblers.

We have gin on the patio in our coats,

listening to a far-off pneumatic drill

working very hard to split something in two.

You promise not to tell anyone?

Martin asks.

I won’t say a word, I promise.

And me neither, Marla says,

eying Martin

in a way that tells me she’s already

completely forgotten who he is.