Poem #25: Zack at the Door

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Zack drops by every day this week.
He doesn't mention it,
but a 14-year-old dropping by, asking for yard work
on a weekday morning in April
must have been suspended from school. Again.
Again I tell him to come back on the weekend,
I'm busy, I have no money, and
no I don't have any cigs
(I lie).
But he's cool with that.
He's a scrawny, snaggle-toothed punk,
and by punk I mean
he's into skateboards and the Ramones;
says he lives with his dad and grandpa.
they used to live in the neighborhood,
but were evicted from their rental
two weeks ago, and are now holed up
in some flea-bag motel on the west side of town.
He walks the four miles to my neighborhood
because there's more homeowners, like me,
for whom he's done work the past year,
and every now and then he can still be handed
a rake or shovel or broom or mower
to do some yard work for a couple of hours.
He grins his set of cartoon teeth
and says "Hey, no problem, I'll be back!"
And he will, and he'll work, too.
Even this anarchist-punk junior high dropout
embraces a work ethic I admire.
It's me that's a slacker,
wanting to get another hour of sleep in this weekend
while I hear him rake the front garden.
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