His speech is rough,
his work is smooth.
Wait.
Don't make him talk.
His tools can maim
or make an angel.
He has wrinkles
like wood grain,
memories like wood scraps.
Wait, and he'll carve one.
The stories come
gnarled, with knotholes.
Listen.
He chuckles like a chisel
working old walnut.
Note: First published in Indian River Review
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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...
