The Box


When I see driven nails I think of the hammer and the hand,
his mood, the weather, the time of year, what he packed
for lunch, how built up was the house,
the neighborhood, could he see another job from here?

And where was the lumber stacked, in what closet
stood the nail kegs, where did the boss unroll
the plans, which room was chosen for lunch?  And where
did the sun strike first?  Which wall cut the wind?

What was the picture in his mind as the hammer
hit the nail?  A conversation?  Another joke, a cigarette
or Friday, getting drunk, a woman, his wife, his youngest
kid or a side job he planned to make ends meet?

Maybe he pictured just the nail,
the slight swirl in the center of the head and raised
the hammer, and brought it down with fury and with skill
and sank it with a single blow.

Not a difficult trick for a journeyman, no harder
than figuring stairs or a hip-and-valley roof
or staking out a lot, but neither is a house,
a house is just a box fastened with thousands of nails.



Sledgehammer's Song


The way you hold the haft,
The way it climbs a curve,
A manswung curve,
The way it undoes what was done.
The way a stake sinks,
Cement splits or a stud
Spins off its nails.

The way shoulders shrug.
The way the breezes waft
And wake and tease a cheek,
The way it undoes what was done.
The way a cabinet cracks
And rakes and bares
The nail-scarred wall beneath.

The way a stance is spread,
The way the steel head pings
And thrums and thuds,
The way it undoes what was done.
The way a bathtub breaks:
Pieces barrowed, porcelain
Left in a bin.

The way sight is stark.
The way the weight wills the arms,
The back and heart,
The way it undoes what was done.
The way the weight is weighed,
Stalling the swing,
The sorrow mid-arc.