1993

The summer days are hard,
fused by the heat and polished with sweat.
My hammer hurls past the head of a nail, dents the wood.
Hair’s wet. It itches.
Slowly, the two by sixes take on a form
tied one to the other,
to another,
and another.
Tin can oldies roll across the sheathing.
This was the year I turned forty.
This was the year the last stooge died.
From on top of the wood
we can see the bay bridge rise and fall in the steam
and sailboats empty of pride,color;
wet green lawns;
brown and grey fences;
dry tan lawns;
and quiet sheltered houses.
My children run below-
the joyous bounce of those close to the earth-
away from the chill water of the wading pool,
into the warm arms of my wife, who collects them, one to an arm
and hauls them away from the road.
This was the year we moved from the city.
This was the year we stood on top of a small house
and made it bigger.

© Joe Thompson · www.imaginesongs.com

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