Storm Windows

by Jacob M. Appel

Most improvements never happened:
Papa’s promised foyer repaint
Loveseats for the downstairs parlor
Nor the guests to perch atop them
(Friends were not my parents’ strong suit)
Yet each autumn, still in khakis,
Like a planet fixed in orbit
Round he went to clear the gutters
Mount snow tires on the Buick
Then one Sunday armed with pliers
War he’d wage against the widows
Sliding out the summer’s mesh screens
Scraping trim and caulking primer
(While I watched with boyish wonder)
How he looked to know his business
How essential seemed the matter
All those windows ranged for duty
So much sweat and so much clatter
Chores to bear like death and taxes.

Later when the marriage failed them
Mama left the panes in year round
Sealing out the springtime breezes
Though you couldn’t tell the difference
Through the sparkle of reflection
Witnessed from the balmy street.