The Weekend King

Through the underbrush we
Marched, steady as the cicada’s
Drone, your chainsaw restlessly
Leading the way, gurgling drops
Of grease like saliva. We
Marched through the black flies
Until we hit that sweet spot,
And you disappeared into an oily
Cloud of woodchips and
Smoke. Wooden towers felled
Left and right, chest high like
A mountain, shining like a
Glacier in the sun. Blood pulsing
Like the rivers of sweat below.
No, there was no time
To stop, “These are done;
C’mon, let’s move on!”

My arms had too much peach
Fuzz for that machine.
Though they were just right for
Picking up the little stuff you
Left behind, and of course fetching
Your beer at the end of the day,
On the porch, where we would sit
In our canvas chairs and watch the
Hummingbirds darting here and
There. I can still hear mom
Clanging away inside, the water bubbling,
The potatoes snapping and popping.
I can still see the weekend king
Slouched in front of me, sipping
His warm beer, his free hand covered in
Grime and left slightly shaking.