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.