I’m in the clearing, now.
He is my master carpenter;
and I, his joiner.
We’re putting up a front.
We reckon it’s the front of a house,
and that we’ll live herein.
The raccoons haven’t micturated
yet upon the beams.
The pallid bats have not deported us
back to the hot garage.
We’ve got our treehouse to erect.
“Pass me that piece there,” he says,
although he leans across
to grab the block himself, and where
his arm just skims the knot
that is my shoulder, I come undone
a moment, spilling tacks,
and there’s a hammer in my pocket
so uncomfortable
I have to pull it out and drop it
in the grass. I will forget it
there. It’s going to rust.
He’ll take on more apprentices.
I’ll never learn to make
a miter joint. For one thing
I’m just messy with the glue.
And though I pound the damned
things down, my boards
come loose. My hinges stick.
My only saving grace:
I am discreet. This time I’ll meet
him by the twilit wood. I’ll
lift the rafters up. Just let him pound.