The gaze of the young mover, grave, muscled
His glasses a nod to the world of the mind,
the life apart from the material world.
But is the mind ever apart from the life of the material world?
Brute strength, muscle power, lift and carry,
Never apart from the guile of coaxing, shaping, shifting, yes, moving.
In my womanly way I bend that world to my will.
Is it my way? No, more the way the world has taught me.
Cooking, washing clothes, banishing dust. . .sometimes.
That’s a way of bending the material world. Sometimes I do well but
When my car is broken, I call.
When the toilet floods! I call
When the fuse blows again and again, I call.
Who comes to me? Today the grave and muscled young moving man and
Someone else.
Chantal, the muscled calves and arms, the black hair, the ice blue eyes.
The lady mover.
The womanly mover who brings the force of the coaxing, managing spirit.
Eyeing the narrow door, the steep steps, strategizing, planning options.
Quick and close in to the customer
That dangerous smile, not at all dismayed at the task.
Laughing, calling for tools to dismantle, to reassemble the bulky matter
that is, after all, necessary for the cook, the laundress, the housewife.
No hurry or ego here, just the belt and a look between her
And the grave muscled man.
“Lift just a bit on the left. OK and now twist a bit.”
A midwife to a washing machine, slipped through the impossibly narrow door.
And I bow to the muscles, the manipulation, the mastery of the material world.
Payment, quick and honest, a tip, a beer and then a surprise
The manipulator of the material world kisses me on both cheeks
And to my smiling astonishment backs the moving van gently into the fence.
Ah, well, the material world is a tricky business.