A Success

I've brought a bucket of shavings and scraps,

of waste and mistakes that cluttered the backyard boatshed

to the stone ring in the yard my wife made

to keep our fires. I go to work with the matches.

I'm puffing at it on hands and knees when the rain

comes: slapping, fat and heavy, building

fast. More matches are useless and then

it is soaked and back in the shop I'm shaking

my head. A fool who can't light a fire

with five matches. Who tries in a rainstorm.

There in the shed with the pine planks I scheme

to make (fool?) a skiff of, I stare

at our trees through the rain's gorgeous veils

and then turn to see the scrapheap brightly ablaze.

Gloss this shopfloor world

“Tell me something I don't know,

something I will not regret

hearing. Tell me the good thing.

Golden words. Unkeep a secret.”

“No. The thing you do not have

words will fail until, footsore, hands

calloused, midnight watch stood, tool

handles slicked with toolcraft done,

sit beside the men that did with

you. Say the half-tale words.

Tell yourselves the bright track run:

words that only you can hear.”

“I am not just some young fool

naif. I know old men love

lies about their lives, tell tales,

wish they had not run out their

sap so fast or cheap. Sing out

hidden help. Rhyme Joy.

Only some ease do I want.

Give it to me. Say the words.”

“Thus is not the truth. Think no

words so fine, real. All good

things are done. Without names, God

has as will be done done, made.”

“Miser! Bring me aught well heard!

Gloss this shopfloor world.

Say the meaning. Some least light!

Otherwise relieve hard toil. Grief

comfort. Lull at least.

Open your mouth!”