Accidental Death and Dismemberment
A fixture now in my
garage's gape
grateful for my
coffee mug hand.
Old sawdust and
powdery snow blow
through the ghost
of my hammering hand
and cling to my
coat. The naked branches
have never
undulated more slowly
against the
February sky as they do now.
Each branch in
focus and
the clouds like
sturgeon drift.
Their bellies
scrape the rooftops and the sun,
subdued by gray
cataracts, sits trapped
in the leafless
trees.
The snow that
sparkled last night
suffocates beneath
a glaze of ice.
the crows on the
telephone wire stare.
Their stare more
purposeful than mine,
more productive.
They're within reach.
the cold wind lifts
each feather.
The cold wind is my
prosthesis.
they've never been
so abundant or so
interested in my
routine.
What's there to
see?
I was just an
average carpenter
working out of my
garage and a below average
businessman in a
town full of go-getters.
A blue jay scrap is
squelched by the echo of
rapid fire
hammering exploding from
the new house going
up two blocks down.
The dogs home alone
yap no matter what.
I was never at my
best when the day was raw.
I hated cold wood
and cold nails. I liked a
warm hammer and a
warm saw.
Brown leaves skate
in circles on the glazed
snow. The mailman's
about three blocks away.
The housewives at
coffee won't miss my sloppy
hammering, my radio
and my Black and Decker
saw's screech. They
may think something's
amiss, though, like
not hearing the cawing
of the crows
breaking the welcome silence
after the garbage
men have made their
stops and moved on
to the next block.
Copyright ã 2005 Francis
Santaquilani
Chattanooga, TN