almost butch

that feeling i get
from hammering
three-inch nails
into loose two-by-fours
slowly solidifying
into a shaded deck

that goes away
when my four-foot-eleven
seventy-four-year-old father
laughs and nudges me aside
after witnessing one too many
bent nails and muttered oaths

at least he still needs me
to help carry the lumber

distracted

i refuse to let work
keep me from writing
my poem today

i just may not
have control over
when i post it