Greg Williamson

Still half-asleep and often still half-drunk,

They bitch about their wives and trucks and work.

The Skil saws lurch. A hammer hits a thumb

Or bangs a nail over or splits the wood

At a crucial joint, which anyway was out

Of square or measured wrong; then bending down

To pull the thing, his butt peeps out above

His pants. Mostly that’s how things get done.

But certain afternoons, with men arrayed

Around the frame, the sun appears to gleam

In sawdust winnowing behind the blade

And catch the hammer cocked above a beam

In a still life of the legendary glamour

Of craft and craftsmanship the mind is given

Long since and far away, where the poised hammer

Doesn’t fall, and not a nail gets driven.

I’ve mowed four times since you’ve been gone.

And now the yard’s knee-deep in maple leaves.

They seem more red this year.

Mike called. He had some tickets for the game.

Everybody misses you, you know. Already

The air smells cold, it smells like football;

And the school bus comes by every morning.

That was so long ago.

Please call me soon.

Please tell me when you’re coming home.

            I bought some lingerie.

When he was starting out, still green,

He used to make a signature mistake

So that his hidden talent could be seen,

Reversing the flag above the White House roof.

It made him feel ingenious and aloof

To signify his forgeries as fake.

He always liked his jokes, but they are private.

Sometimes, when he is pressed about his trade,

He answers with a shrug, “I draw a profit”

Or “I trust in God.” Nobody ever laughs.

In the den, above two ebony giraffes,

Hangs the first dollar that he ever made.