Stick-Me-Tights

 

Stick-Me-Tights

Embraced by weed that clings,
by nettle that stings, I harvest boards.
I’d rather embrace the young bride
who will scrape a bungalow to build a mansion
but this old fence, precious like barn wood,
weathered yet strong, they’ll use for decor,
perhaps the front door.

Decades ago
in a rougher town I set these posts,
nailed these planks for a thorny man
who leered at schoolgirls, offered massage.
A Molotov cocktail destroyed his garage.
So he hired me to wall the property
like a stockade for rusting Volvos
while the town grew less hardscrabble,
more gentry.

I speak no history to this innocent,
unborn when this saga began.
I am the ancient handyman.

She writes a check
while I pluck stick-me-tights
from shorts, from socks, from shirt.
Ick! she says. Don’t drop them in my dirt.
So I’ve brought this handful for you, my friend,
the clutch of history from weed country
to do what seeds do.

…..

First published in Visitant
Photo by me