It was Tom who always lost his wallet.
Or his keys. Or his clothes.
Sunday he bought a sweatshirt
when we went to Target in Mountain View
(dodging the lady in a nurse's uniform at the automatic door,
the lady who held a bedpan-like receptacle, soliciting donations.
"I Love Your Smile" the bumperstickers read).
Monday the sun got too intense and he draped it
over one of the outdoor lights
he was installing
at the rich guy's house in the hills above Los Gatos.
Earlier, he'd pulled the blueprints
from the back of his van to show me
the layout of the house;
I knew the location of every light that lined
the cobblestone driveway.
Or maybe he didn't hang the sweatshirt from a light.
Maybe he just dropped it to the ground by the trench
they were digging for the conduit.
forward anywhere lines