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

            and another.

His wonders will fleck the air.