I’ve decided that October will go down
in my history as a Month of Infrastructure,

the unsexy, can’t-see-it-but-if-it-breaks-you’re
in-big-trouble repairs that had to happen,

in home and work spaces, while trying to
calm my galloping heart as I channel my

mother’s mantra when she didn’t have much:
“It’s only money.” That, and thanking the

gods of habitation for home equity lines.
But all this work is worthy of applause for

the men who’ve so meticulously applied
their time and talent to this old house

and the attic-like space less than 2 miles
away that I consider my office. I could offer

basement crawls for the adventurous to
admire the new pipes carrying in what needs

carrying in and carrying out what needs, well,
carrying out. And perhaps, in the loft, I could

ask Richard the handyguy to leave a corner
exposed to show off the new ceiling insulation,

along with 43 nifty new acoustical ceiling tiles,
that will, with luck, keep the writing garret

cooler in summer, warmer in winter. I like to
think I’m investing in the miracle of humanity

with all this cushioning, lining and padding
of the underpinnings, shoring up spaces

where those I care about spend time, gather
because I invited them to come sit a spell

and chat, have some tea, pick up a pen
and see what flows out of it, then share it,

if they like—surprising us all with the wonder
of words magically appearing on a page.