For Want of a Good Man

I'm 8 feet up on this ladder,
but I've got good balance
and I don't look down long enough
to feel afraid.
My drill and two bits, a hammer and a bunch of screws
rest on the perch as I manouevre myself
to attach the curtain rod brackets.
Screws in my mouth, in my pocket,
the screwdriver in my sweaty hand,
leaving dirty palm prints on the white walls.
The rod is up, and only I see that the last
bracket is crooked, and
that I couldn't get all the anchors in.
My curtains hang, not really one I like;
I didn't make them myself.
It looks okay. It will do in a pinch.
It blocks the light,
and more appropriately,
blocks my neighbors' gaze.
The free show is over, my friends.
Nothing to see here anyway.
I do so many things myself,
so many things that want for a good man
who can do them better.
But I would gladly continue to do these things,
if the good man
who is mine
can't.