Habitat for Humans

The worksites are

cracked and broken log-cabin homes

with two-story-high satellite dishes

planted in the dirt and nothing

in the fridge besides beer.

The wide gaping want

is physically manifested

in the form of dirt-smudged children

following us

barefoot in the heat,

eating our packed sandwiches of

peanut butter and honey.

We get real

about working

try to beat back the need

with hammers

caulk guns

and compassion.

Time off is spent

playing chicken in the pool

with boys from faraway places like

Indiana and Illinois.

We flirt and pray together,

sing hope-filled songs

around the campfire.

I never want to leave

even eat a few of those

honey and peanut butter

sandwiches myself

because I am too present

alive

and grateful

to remember

your ultimate goal.

As the days pass

I barely feel

the steel trap of guilt

snapping at me, hardly hear that

desperate inner-voice

screaming

“you worthless pigbitch”

drowned out

as I sing and play and help.