The man needs work, chops
his estimate by 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 walk-up steps
Then all it wants is a door,
side windows, shingles,
a coat of primer, oil base paint
We stand shoulder to shoulder
listening to the sound of cicadas
seesawing in late afternoon sun,
picturing a handsome shed
where there is none
I cough in our silence
for want of a special word,
not seasoned enough to admit
I’d trade him most everything
for his pickup and sandpaper jaw