Two weeks ago it stopped,
mid-cycle, as we aging machines
can do, and flashed a two-word
mystery at me:

Pump block?

How should I know? I said.
But the washer ignored me,
flashing its persistent message
until I turned its knob to off.

I asked Leaman, the handyman,
who grinned sympathetically
as he wrestled with my dishwasher
and told me where to call. One
appliance at a time, he said.

So I did, and the appliance gods
delivered Adam, who, once shown
to the machine, plopped himself
and his puffy red beard in the tight
corner between washer and wall
and set to work, so focused he could’ve
been fine tuning a moon-bound orbiter,
one of which splashed down several
days ago—mission accomplished.

Which is what I told Adam after he
masterfully unblocked the pump
and carefully removed the small lake
in the washer, not spilling a drop,
which, as far as I’m concerned,
makes him a pro, one whom NASA
should consider hiring.

The man’s got wicked good skills.