Every time I pick up
a chisel and hammer and
locking pliers, maybe a talon of carpet
knife and pry bar, monkey
wrench and needle nosed
whatevers. Ampmeter and alligators and bucket
head shop vac. Saved saw dust and
back saw and tennis ball socked. Every time
I pick up
I put down little passions.
The dream of sleeping in late
on my front porch and
watching the sun go.
The clouds come. Spreading
like my smile
before I tighten
my cap, stand up from my rocking
chair and find the long grassed trail
to the place where everything waits
for a little human touch.
The shed. The office. Call it
what you will.
In my retirement dreams I call it the mill.
Not you waiting there
for the nail gun and tube turn-it-wets.
But someone waiting for me
all damn day.
Me the kind sadist.
Patient for the end of the day.
Give me time, sweetness.
Give me time.
