If Larry was right and the ankle of a horse
Is holy, then what about my carpenter’s wrist, fatigued
By three weeks of the nail gun? Reinforced in its black
Brace against the weight of the drill, the weight of the saw.
The song the saw sings. The sheetrock goes up.
It’s not as bad as
Of tendonitis creeping up my elbow, my shoulder.
Months of metal studs and sheetrock. The length
Of my arm encased in lycra and velcro.
There are novels of pain to be told, but this
Is not one of them. I drive nails and screws,
Thousands. I dream of the bones of the wrist,
My wife. I dream of cowboy music.
The river of music that makes up a life.
