Carpenter Sunrise
From my window I see
branches dripping
gray fog.
I face a long day
heaving heavy boards,
testing
my brittle back,
glasses wet
with sweat,
porcupine fingers
bristling splinters,
shaping lumber
with a clear heart.
Carpenter, carpenter, what do you say?
Cut wood all day,
bring home the pay:
a pocketful of sawdust.
With strange joy
I can’t wait
to begin.
About the Poet:
Joe Cottonwood has worked as a carpenter, plumber, and electrician for most of his life. Nights, he writes. His most recent book is 99 Jobs: Blood, Sweat, and Houses.
joecottonwood.com
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