poetry critical

online poetry workshop

He Works

a piece for my senior portfolio.
not so great, but i hada project in my creastive writing class, where we were given a photograph, & had to write something to interpret it.

mine wasa picture of a door, with things carved all over it.

He works.
The rain soaks through the worn cedar wood of his workshop.
The one his father built.
It soaks through and drips down, splattering his hands as they splinter.
He works.
Building blisters and calouses on his hands and fingers.
Cutting, and sawing, and nailing.
And he works.
Despite the fact that 56 years later, his work will be rewarded with vandalism; graffiti created by the locals.
The kids and their brothers. Thinking they can write something meaningful.
But only walking away from words.
No truth or meaning at all behind them.
Just words.
He works.
Slow and steady.
Building this door that will welcome three generations after him.
This door will scream at its opening, and cry as it’s closed.
But to him, this was music.
Music orchestrated by his sweat and tears.
A symphony of triumph and perseverance.
A success, or perhaps a tragedy.
Because this cedar will fade, and crack, and peel, and splinter.
It will wear, and rust, and will not be appreciated.
It will be slammed, and painted, and kicked, and broken.
He works.
Not knowing that it is in vain.
A mere duty that needed to be done.
No “thank you’s”, or “good job’s”.
His labor is disregarded, ignored, neglected.
And somewhere between the saw and the cedar,
He finds himself between every crevice, every splinter,
And he knows that though this door will be neglected, abused, and abandoned.
It will not be forgotten.
Just as he.

12 Mar 07

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