I wake up on my sofa after
Work, knowing she needs
Workman's hands to hold
Hammer and nail at
Points she's chosen for her
Pictures.
A stronger back for heavier
Things, but I'm spent. Work is
War, now. Power drill, pistol.
I bark orders at privates,
Not warnings at young, spiteful
Carpenters
Fresh from school
With too
Much product in their
Hair to want to wear their
Mandatory
Hard hats.
My heart skips beats when I
Lift. I count falling stars
At daytime climbing stairs.
Lie to concerned foremen.
A brain-soul-body Bermuda
Triangle of energies lost.
I have love to last her lifetimes,
Shoulders to rest her weary,
Closed eyes against or dig her
Fingernails into, gasping.
But for now, the ceiling I gaze
Up at stares back down judgingly,
Not recognizing this frowning
Ghost of the mud-covered grin I
Carried a few, short years ago.
The futile clawing and sliding of
A minuscule man climbing a
Colossal statue of himself.