by John Flynn
He feels guilty enough about writing poems
much less talking about it for a precarious living.
He sticks closer to carpentry; straightening boards,
hammer blows, cutting the corners of a stair so it
stands right and is safe for the climber, the old and
babies just walking. Being sure the rafters carry
a roof that sheds rain and whatever snow load
settles in. Fitting oak boards to make the floor,
no gaps or creaks, the nails angled and set in the
tongue each with one massive blow of the mallet.
Doors that swing quietly, smoothly, and latch with
a soft, hollow chirp. At end of day he puts his
tools away, picks up a bit and sweeps.
He inhales the smell, the silence of new work,
the day's final chirp of the solid core door.