Among the Skilled


I have remained here 
for many long years;
never quite sure how
to deftly strike a common
10 penny straight and true;
fearful of not being safely
grounded on the third 
aluminum step beneath 
a bird’s nest of hot and 
cold circuitry dangling
ominously above.
I once knew a welder
whose name was Arthur.
I watched him don his
iron mask and melt steel
with a flame as bright as
the sun. I proudly held
his spark lighter and 
obediently shifted my
gaze to the sky. I once
knew a stone mason
named Patrick, and for 
him I carried three parts
sand to one part Portland. 
He used a trowel like 
a pastry chef. And what
of the lumberjack; face
weathered and smile
perfect? I detested his
dedication, his skill, 
his pristine heavy duty
Silverado. He told me
that dead trees don’t
catch the wind. I told
him nothing.