Scoop iron ore.
Crush, then fire.
Add carbon,
form a wire.
Machine cut, point chiseled,
forklift to truck, teamster grizzled.
Store shelf, boxed and sold,
tool belt pouch
to fingers, hold,
left hand.
Hickory handle, blunt face
callused grip, knuckles' grace
right hand.
Tap to set, then squint of eye,
swell of muscle, nerves fly —
Exquisite, the
arc of hammer.
Gift of labor.
Forget glamour.
Honor the artistry, honor the crew
for one nail
driven true.
First published in MOON magazine
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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...
