Keeping Track of My Genius

I sometimes find him in the attic,

lying on his side, contemplating

the insulation. Or just staring at

the beams, trying to get the measure

of force and distribution. He

turns up a lot in the garage.

I know he loves me. But if I look

away for an instant, he's off,

and I worry that he won't come back

(or when he does he'll have no taste,

gone in for some fad I'll have to bear,

and every move he makes a test).

But usually he's charming,

following me to the cafe

and lying on the awning so carefully

as not to make it sag, only

casting a slight shadow on my table.

Of course I act as though I

haven't seen a thing. He only wants,

I think, to do what can't be done.

Why just yesterday, for instance,

I found him going through the public trash,

figuring how to fill a bottle

some angry drunk had smashed.