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