Fits the Hammer

A boy's hand
fits the hammer
shy of his father's grip.
You grow into this business.
Center the nail
plane the planks,
doors, chairs, tables,
sign your name in sweat and sawdust.
Easy to daydream,
hope swinging from a tool belt
on the pegboard,
someday all this
will be all there is to it.

A beach girl
eyes the line of blue wind
and water,
her mom measures the clouds
for storms.
The difference between them
will narrow with years,
today's sunshine and sky,
the one thing they'll wear
forever, whether the house is full
of dreams, screams
or memories.

If it were only that,
buttering bread
and naming kittens,
we'd all be kings in castles
and our children saints.
But homes are broken,
holidays divided,
the most we hope for
is half of what we had.
Losers weepers.

Brother's keepers.
The ounce of prevention
roots underground.
An army of the other cheek turned
springs eternal from the empty grave.
He's charged us to carry the cloak in danger
a geography of extra miles.
Pick up where we're crossed
and swallow free,
there's only so much a cup
can hold until
it runneth over.
Will SchmitComment