The earth wakes us
shaking the bed.
It's 3:21a.m.
I sit bolt upright,
the dogs growl,
you clutch my arm.
We, naked
in the dark.
To the ears of this old carpenter
the home we built is
sort of moaning
but not in a painful way
more like the way my body feels
when I stretch after
sitting too long.
After a few seconds: silence.
The planet rests.
"Want to check anything?" you ask.
"No," I say.
So we curl together and go back to sleep:
you, me, dogs, our little house,
forest, mountain, tectonic plates.
No damage
but a reminder of
who owns this place,
payment due some day
and when it comes
I want to be with you.
First published in Freshwater
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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...
