Handiwork

Now, retired and not a carpenter in deed, I miss this aspect of the work that I loved so much for so long. Recently, at a bistro, a hose was kinked and my hands got me a free beer.

                         Handiwork

                   In the early years
                     as often as not,
               my hands let me down
                   with subpar work
              that I could not improve.
                     They fell short
                  of my imagination
         which could see perfect joints.
                 I dreamed of curves
               that began and ended
               just where they should
       yet did not and I despaired a bit.

             Then, one day, years ago,
                  in a magic moment
                    they handed me
              exactly what I asked for.
        We kept along that lovely path
             until they took the reins
           and my mind could wander,
                 freed from steerage.
     At the end of those working days
                      I would wake
           from a heavy lidded dream
            to see a marvel before me
      with my hands waving a flourish
                and a blush of pride.

           They had found their way
          to a place I could not reach
            yet not out of their grasp.
We looked at this newly arrived beauty
                rubbed with linseed,
                  glistening and shy.
          She received the questions
                 asked of all starlets
             and thanked her people
               for all their handiwork.

This poem is a sequel to “These Guys”, written in 2019.