5.12.2008

On selling your soul for a buck.

My bucket of tools banged against
the side of my leg as I moped
to the house I had to work on.
The site was like a ghost town
due to the weather, figured I'd fake
a kind word to one of the few souls
actually there. Switching hands
with my load, I forced a hungover smile
and told that sole carpenter the fascia
he was nailing to the roof of the porch looked good.
The rough wood was no longer visible
replaced instead by decorative white aluminum.
He stepped down from the ladder, pretending to
need nails, and showed that he was lonely
by saying more than "Thanks." My foreman
wasn't around but I still wouldn't drop my bucket
to chat; whatever he said had to be quick, but it wasn't.
"It looks good, but I feel like an asshole. These two birds
keep flying around me trying to get into the gaps
in the wood I just sealed off with aluminum. They must
have a nest in there somewhere, probably babies."
He shook his head and gave me the look of disgust
that comes with the burden of doing whatcha gotta.
I saw in his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses
that he was one of us, the cursed and conscienced
minority on the job.
I picked up the pace to avoid further awkward
seemingly meaningless conversation
and pitied the poor bastard for trying to walk my line
having a heart on a construction site.
Don't worry, man. This isn't Nuremberg, you were
"just following orders" will fly. By the time I finished hooking
up the furnace behind the house he was gone.
The birds were still there chirping their little hearts out.
It dawned on me that it's not always for the reason
we'd like to think.

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