John Maloney

They’re heading home with their lights on, dust and wood glue, yellow dome lights on their metallic long beds: 250s, 2500s— as much overtime as you want, deadline, dotted line, dazed through the last few hours, dried primer on their knuckles, sawdust calf-high on their jeans, scraped boots, the rough plumbing and electric in, way ahead of the game except for the check, such a clutter of cans and iced-tea bottles, napkins, coffee cups, paper plates on the front seat floor with cords and saws, tired above the eyes, back of the beyond, thirsty. There’s a parade of them through the two-lane highways, proudest on their way home, the first turn out of the jobsite, the first song with the belt off, pure breath of being alone for now, for now the insight of a full and answerable man. No one can take away the contentment of the first few miles and they know they can’t describe it, the black and purple sky.