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As a carpenter I’ve refurbished a number of wrecks,
jacked-up old structures, replacing foundations and beams;
installed new windows and doors, new roofs, new paint.
I also specialize in the building of decks,
the reconstruction of bridges as deemed,
and boardwalks where dirt-trails daunt the halt and the faint.

In terms of payment I prefer cash over personal checks,
although payroll works better for unemployment schemes
(I hate it when the tax weasels lodge a complaint).
Bottom line there’s no payment I’ll reject
even if it’s all milk when I’d rather skim cream.
I’m sorry to talk about money, sigh! But I’m no saint,
and since I work for a living, what else have I got?

Poetry might be a easier profession, I reflect,
(and my diploma I might finally redeem)
writing things popular, nearly incomprehensible, if quaint,
perhaps another Longfellow, by heck!
It seems easy, if seeming is only what it seems,
but is it worth quitting the day job? Most folks say it ain’t.

So give me wood and chain-saws, blueprints circumspect.
Give me my speed-square, of all the tools, supreme!
Nails and hammers, and chisels used with restraint,
and the sweat of honest labor (which ‘pon my brow is flecked).
To be both poet and carpenter’s a worthy dream,
but in this poem’s construction I try now to acquaint
why my muscles earn money and my poetry does not.



Dale Arthur

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