I lived in two Jeff Towne homes,
across Carr Street from each other.
933A was the second, and where I lived
the longest, next door to Jim and Daniele,
Stefan and Josie, and their beasts.
Those were good years.
The strip between, according to Jim,
was a pet grave yard.
Like most Jeff Towne homes,
933A came with certain attributes, or
bonuses. The front porch was a
depository for Jeff’s collections:
a spare toilet, paint cans, stove
fragments, boxes, a lot of this,
bits of that. Jeff was a magpie.
You never know when you might something.
The wiring could only handle
so much juice. Turn on the ACC,
and the circuit breaker flipped, and
down I would go into the cellar,
another depository of this, that,
and home to a giant possum. I worried
about the big furry guy in the winter and left him food.
A white Cadillac graced the back yard,
its tires, slowly disintegrating into the earth.
No parking in the driveway, or under the
carport roof.
More stuff had to go somewhere.
And Jeff, landlord, friend, who kept
a gun by his bed, along with the ruins of his meals.
From the front door to the kitchen, a narrow path
between stacks and stacks of stuff.
But, he rented to grad students, writers, poets,
He looked after us. He broke his no-pet rule
for my first cat (who loved the birds who came
down the chimney. One he caught, killed, and saved for me),
Jeff made me laugh.
Cranky, crazed, sometimes, but
always, always, a good heart.
He even let me park in that carport
when it rained. My car leaked.
Those were good years.
