Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Carpenter's Lament

Moments seem to collapse.
Everything outside disappears,
fading into shades,

as I wince at a nail jab
from the scrap in my hand. There is a sense
of injustice, work unrewarded,

as the hammer crashes--bang--
to the floor. I'm sent back to the body;
no more fantasy of competence.

What is this building but the temporary
attraction of sawdust,
a rickety box of sticks?

Even the smallest blood drop
screams of self-awareness.
Voices intrude from the world--

"You OK?"
Salt, I am salty. And my tongue
pierces the dusty air.