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His hands are like
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the canvas to his carpentry life,
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creases and wrinkles branch
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over a calloused background,
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dirt and saw-dust blur and blend
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like an impressionism of his days work.
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At lunch, he sits on his cooler and
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paints peanut butter on bread
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with a splintered shim,
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the shelter of his work
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framed around him,
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his hammer resting by the lumber
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like a paintbrush by its easel.
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He has sheathed the walls
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that Edward Hopper slanted light to,
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leveled the window that showed
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Van Gogh a Starry Night.
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He could hang the joists beneath
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Van Eycke’s wedding floor,
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or discuss with Michelangelo
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the pitch of his ceiling,
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so when I ask him
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if he ever planned on
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painting one day,
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he looks at me
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with an enigmatic gaze
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and says, “Nah, I think I’ll sub.”
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