The man needs work,

chops his estimate twenty-five percent,

unpacks his tools,

measures and trims lumber on homemade saw horses

Tomorrow, nails in mouth, he’ll frame the walls,

form the doorway,

the angles of the roof, two steps

Then all’s it wants is a door, shingles and paint

Shoulder to shoulder we admire

the work he’s done

in the sound of cicadas seesawing

what he’s hammered together

I cough,

not seasoned enough to admit

I’d trade him everything I have

for his crowbar grip