Works

How many hours did the carpenter spend
building this table, turning wood into
a useful thing, a new object for the world?
I picture him, cigarette perched in his lips,

matching walnut grains through a veil of smoke.
Now his work mingles with mine, he becomes
a silent partner to the evening meal.
What do I do that others can build on?

My lonely broodings are selfish dead-ends.
I sprinkle words to the soil & hope they take,
because I'm not a farmer, nursing the land,
& what I sow grows wild like wind blown grass.