The Consultant’s Wooden Box

 

I

His parched hands stumbling across the workbench were no excuse

As if his heart was waiting to reclaim too many idle hours

As if the world window near his head could help him plan this more

Than he already felt, than he already knew from the thrumming in his ears

 

The tools were all there, laid out with precision, the lengths of board

To be cut and sanded, the nails and hinges, the designs clearly in view

All he had to do was start but oh the beginning was such a journey!

The starting so hard, the impulse something left so many times aside

 

II

During the day he’d meet with people, talk and be watched and be listened to

And then, he’d write it down precisely - what was said a hundred times

But never read by those eyes, never heard by those ears, never well-set in those words

Chiseled for sense and bent around the expectations of that particular audience

 

At night he let the day bleed down to pale sheets across tired rooms

He’d think of us, I know he tugged at me from far away with rheumy eyes

The link never broken with time, the time lost between life and work

The dark tent collapsing down around the both of us apart and together

 

III

At home he kissed us with hugging and heaped more on us than he owned

Sharing the entire sky, the full bright of the sun, the distance of each star

Told his gleaming eye secrets and broke as many molds as he dared to

Letting us feel who he was, what he wanted more of and less of and more

 

And finally, he knew something should stay behind after all of that,

Some thing that wasn’t the mind he made his living with or just his loving heart,

So much of his life was windblown, so much just sifted through is fingers

But this, this he made with his hands and he left it for us specifically