Carpenter, Pacific Coast

 

Carpenter, Pacific Coast

Though they sleep man and wife, one bed,
only when she rises, morning, does he notice
sleek silk she wears, so white
    but no time for touch.

In a drought year five pees, one flush, saves
water. The little guy's first day of carpool.
    So little. So brave!

Alone driving a truck of garbage
under raining redwood needles the carpenter
passes sleepy-eyed cattle, apple harvest,
    but no time for beauty.

So sad, bright toys among rotten roofing
at the Pescadero dump but such a view!
Cauliflower clouds stuck on mountains.
    Cotton strings of surf.

At Big Creek Lumber on the oceanside bluff
he buys pieces of forest as the yardman points:
    whale spouts!

Bouncing to the job with an overloaded
rack of sliced wood, Highway One,
wind shoves and shakes like a rude boy.
Off Año Nuevo Island fishing boats bob,
bath toys. Driftwood beaches.
Pigeon Point lighthouse—flash!
    Here comes fog.

And the work: cut and hammer.
Splinters rip ragged fingers
like a horror movie:
    ATTACK OF THE TREES
    starring Douglas Fir
    with Red Wood
        and introducing
    Penny Nail.

Sawdust hair, brown dandruff
on the dinner plate.
Little guy liked the carpool.
Homegrown tomatoes, juice runs
    down five chins.

"You coming to bed?" "Not yet."
Under blankets he tries to wait, fights sleep,
wondering will she wear it again?
Morning comes, wake, wake, the answer:
    smooth touch of silk.
 

…..
 

First published in Windfall
 

Note: I wrote this poem in 1985 to celebrate my busy beautiful family and the insanely beautiful region we call home on a redwood mountainside wedged between the San Andreas fault and the Pacific Ocean.

Hear me: