DAVID BARNES
The Carpenter

The truth of it:
he looks on softened palms these days,
no longer calloused ...
calloused hands, which once shaped,
planed the rich surface of a life cut down,
fashioned, carved
into an intricate corner cabinet, hanging
somewhere.

Against the shed wall,
Queen Anne stands incomplete, naked,
awaiting her finale;
and he knows that someone else will
have to dress her.

He sees yesteryears.
Blackened bloodstains, scars embedded
in the worn workbench:
where carved barley twists
lie half finished.

The truth of it:
glue clamps and nails do not gather here anymore,
his tools lie idle.
All that remains is the fragrance of wood;
the memory of calloused hands.