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I rinse the colander free of pierogie remnants
you tell me that your father worked as an iceman
yes, an iceman for the Citizen Ice and Fuel folks.
What needs sluicing
and what is best left in the pot?
I hear If I wasn’t so lazy
as I soap and wash and dry,
releasing your almost ninety-four.
There must be a sculpture somewhere
an iron-gray bridge
stalwart, swayed into the gusts
hands splaying, fingers webbed,
that Before adroitly caught.
By Glynda Shaw
Wednesday, June 3, 2015.
I brace the mitre box
Slantwise slotting the fine-toothed saw.
Balsomous resins rise. Pine dust wafts.
Allergic to Work!
I carry the A-brace To the two-by-fours,
Each angled at 45 degrees.
Sally, take away your fetch toy!
Keep that up and we’ll have
The Leaning Tower of Peter.
Now quickly mark for the drill-press to
Accommodate half-inch steel pins.
I hear Keith Holsapple,
His big Boeing grin as
He harangues usabout trusses.
Spaced on square-beam footers
I brace my feet, tipping up and over
Eight-foot plywood sheet.
Leah! Hope you stepped nimbly!
As the sheet comes slaloming down again.
At last, roofboards in place
I sigh relief as nails sufficient to steady, drive.
The roof, wood-coveredand peaked,
Now tarped against Winter snow melt;
I offer Peter Burro His lodging.
He snort-sniffs a bit,
Deigns a clump of
I stretch cramping back, Felx aching fingers,
Take up the marker to scrawl over the entrance