Last task,
to connect the final link to the septic tank
with four inch plastic pipe, unwieldy crap,
heavy in the hands.
It's really a two-man job.
No spare parts so gotta get this right first time
but the smelly glue dries fast and
—oh no!—
the two stubs freeze in the coupling like rusted pistons
before they're even a quarter-way seated.
One second of panic.
Desperate to finish this day,
kneeling in ditch filth
summoning from the gods extra reserve
with every muscle
—it's one of those superhuman moments —
I grip both ends and
SHOVE
which leaves me shaking and stunned.
Adrenaline, amazing.
Perhaps only another tradesman would
appreciate heroism of the craft.
Little victories!
I'm mucky with mud but the pipes are fully seated.
It's like the moment of bat meeting ball and, pow,
you know it's going over the fence.
Nobody saw. Nobody knows.
Plumber. Babe Ruth.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
