Independent Contractor

Forty degrees; the threat of rain. That time of fall When we are most inclined to end it all. Denim-jacketed, with a faded sweatshirt hood, He draws his plane along a length of wood, Then takes a chisel to a cornice piece With two light taps. His movements never cease; His cracked and callused hands, in gloves with fingers cut, Rub up for warmth, then start like hares hawked by his thought. He knows no other work; wants none. He learned this from His father—brace and auger, bob and plumb— The same way he learned how to hunt or take a beating: Not by words but by a look, and by repeating Mutely each grimace, wince, set of the jaw. His job is more than workmanlike. No flaw Or gap offends the eye. Each post and bull-nose stair Seems proof of love—if love is proved by excess care.