An older guy who used to do bit parts in the movies showed up while I was reading a pulp novel in my Adirondack chair.
He said he needed a place to land his plane so could he build an air strip on the back part of the double lot?
Sure. Why the hell not?
He pays me six dollars a day in rent, cash money.
My dogs watch the work unfold,
or play with the guy's Boxer.
There is just him, his wife, his adult son, the Boxer (whose name is"Buddy"), and an old truck.
Work progresses slowly.
I collect my six bucks at 5 o'clock.
One afternoon about a week in, the guy stops by my chair, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
"I'm up in the air in my prop job, and I'm almost out of fuel," he tells me.
"But...you're here," I point out as gently as I can.
"Yes," he agrees, "I'm here, but I'm also up in the air in my prop job and really need a place to land."
The dogs play.
His wife and son lean on their shovels.
Inside, I have a refrigerator, a table and chairs, a tv.
I think I've seen the guy in something.
Right now, though, he's up in the air in his prop job,
looking down at himself building an air strip in my back yard.
"Good luck," I say, the way one does.
He nods, sweating and looking beat, then goes back to building his air strip.
I watch the dogs chase each other and try to think what can I buy with six bucks?
for day 9 of my 39 poems in 39 days.