Carpenter by David Linklater
The ten o’ clock grinder is back at it,
inside the agony of wood
before it is something delivered.
Trying to carve a straight line
his lungs are furnished blonde.
Bad for his health
but he’s overridden that, works the night
with mallets and saws, laying old dressers
on their sides, that whisperer of tables.
He’ll stay as long as the reaffirmation
of the leg sworn back into duty
with a varnish coat,
trialing each drawer’s action,
handles sanded with a silken wrist.
No such thing as perfect, he knows that.
But it catches the back of his throat
on nights like this. The just-so street,
rooms of dead composers,
wounded rocking chair and birds,
his calloused hands and bright green eyes
affecting the order of things;
the ripple of living, its engine laid open.
Whatever he’s making, it’ll be a fine piece.
The commission will be lauded,
a bottle of wine broken against its side
His wonders will fleck the air.
David Linklater is a poet from Balintore, Easter Ross. His work has appeared in Gutter, Glasgow Review of Books, DMQ Review, The High Window and Ink, Sweat & Tears, amongst others. His pamphlet Black Box was published with Speculative Books in 2018. He lives and writes in Glasgow.
You can find him on Twitter at @DavidRossLinkla.