Once when I was painting the Milligan’s house,
     I walked into the kitchen with Dick Jr. to find Dick Sr.
and a grey-haired man in overalls holding an old plumber’s wrench.

When the elder Dick said, “Have you met my son Dick?” the handyman smile
     and offered a hand. “Dick Swanson,” he said. And I, figuring, you know,
when in Rome, offered my own hand. “Dick Powers,” I said.
      “Pleased to meet ya.” The Milligans laughed, Dick the Handyman
offered a firm handshake and life went on. Except the next fall,

I got a job at the middle school and on my way to lunch was greeted
      by a smiling Handyman Dick. He taught eighth grade science
on the second floor. Each day at noon he’d smile and shout, “Hi Dick!”
      and I’d wave. “Hi, Dick!” For thirty seconds every day I was Dick.
I wondered: if I taught next door, would we hang out together?

Would I start helping out with handyman jobs on weekends?
      Would I leave teaching to form Dick & Dick: Handyman Solutions
or Two Dicks: Handymen. Let’s face it: being Jack is easy,
      but being Dick? That’s tough. You’re crushed or grow stronger,
proud of all the Dicks who’ve persevered,

who exchange hearty handshakes in a secret society
            like I glimpsed in that kitchen: four Dicks sharing a laugh.

Originally appeared in Everybody’s Vaguely Familiar
from Golden Antelope Press