is where we meet once a week,
discreetly. Where he works with his
hands to create, shape me and
the wood. Though I’ve a few splinters

he needs to trim. I stand outside the double
doors, waiting for him. Anxious as a bucking
horse. But playing it cool. Not so he thinks
I’m the wood for the fuel.  I could have come

around the back, or any other door many
have traveled through before. But no. I wanted
to enter his private part, the one with the saw
and the drill. The one where he performs all

his skills. The one where his wife leaves
him alone. The one where all the others
do not go. The one where the sawdust
snows. I like this clandestine place –

there’s nothing sexier than a man in his cave.