These Guys

An ode to my hands. I'm ending the year with a bang, three poems in a row because why the hell not? This is a carpenter poem. Even as a boy, my hands had a life of their own, pretty restless.

It’s good to end the year on a positive note. See you all in a week or so, dependiendo de la cantidad de margaritas.

                       These Guys

           They came into this world
                 together, like twins.
            One had all the initiative 
      the other one followed, intuitive, 
  always offering the perfect support.

        Early on they were hesitant, 
             unsure of themselves.
        Covering their small universe
   in mistakes, blundering into places
     and things well beyond their skill.
   They did develop good judgement,
    but only over a great span of time,
           and always at some cost;
  ruined material, broken parts never 
 to be reunited in their original places, 
   and blood, there was always blood,
      that ever constant fee, the ante,
         to a game of copying, fixing,
 making, building and finally, creating.

After a good many years panhandling,
          fixing more than breaking,
   things more built than demolished,
 slogging through the apprenticeship,
                   the day arrived.
  They stopped tripping up the other,
       their timing became seamless,
        they dovetailed. They began
      to know each other's thoughts,
   finishing each other's movements,
       like a seasoned vaudeville act.
         They became journeymen,
          competent and confident.

    They took their show on the road,
 worked jobs from Carolinas to Maine.
      They fixed and rebuilt, crafted 
         and occasionally innovated.
         Somewhere in that long run, 
         with no drumroll, no fanfare, 
              they became masters.
               It was work no more.
              The days flowed in a
             hypnotic haze of ease,
                 the perfect blend
             of thought and action.
                They became one.

           At the end they just wish
              to be joined together,
                   in a handshake,
          a great clasp of friendship,
                for a job well done.
          One long last eternal clap,
        for these greatest of friends.