Poem for Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Carpenter

told me that my porch posts were bleeding
sap, and sure enough, they were.

He pointed to the sticky amber spots that
had pushed through the white Dutch Boy
like an infant through the jungle of muscles.

"Know what's causin' that?" he asked.

I shook my head, looking at his scabby, sun-
beaten hands, smelling the impending
storm.

"No, I don't."

He brushed his thumb over a knot the
size of a nickel on the opposite side of
the post, smiling.

"This knot right here," he said.

His words harmonized with a soughing
wind: inspect the wood, dry it out,
use water-based paint.

They were not majestic, but they
were honest.

I glanced at his shirt pockets, convex
and unsnapped; one contained a church
bulletin, the other a pack of cigarettes.

"People told me I should've been a
carpenter all my life," he uttered while
fumbling for a smoke.

And after that, the wind grew bold,
racing through my hair and clothes.
The charcoal clouds began to collide.

The carpenter knew he had to call it
a day, so he left with a brisk goodbye.

Crossing the street, he went inside
his securely built house.

I watched him from mine.