He rings the doorbell, twice,
loudly, the old bell in the kitchen
summoning me as if to a fire.

But it’s Ernest come to offer
his hands for whatever tasks
he thinks need doing—today

clearing gutters and roof of
a forest of leaf litter. The rain’s
stopped awhile. I can get up

there and take care of that
mess, he says. He offers a
modest price that I know

I will enhance because
it’s a dirty job on the best
of days, and this, I want

to say, is far from the best
of days, drizzle turning to
pounding rain and back,

continuing to down leaves
stubbornly hanging on.
But Ernest will chase

the strays off the roof
and clean up the mucky
mess between showers.

He will wish me a nice
day when he’s done,
which reminds me that

it is, of course, a very nice
day, weather notwithstanding,
because a gentle man

who pops by now and again
appeared on my porch
to offer assistance I didn’t

ask for, didn’t realize
that I needed, but was
delivered at just the right

moment by someone who
shares a name with
someone I loved who

once lived here, too.