Anchors Away

I was not made
to wear a shirt and tie;
my arms are too long
my shoulders too wide
and I sweat like a pig
wearing a T-shirt in October.
Who could take seriously
a pit-stained teacher
in too-tight dress clothes?
Or for that matter
one who can't say with conviction
that he never ends
his sentences
with prepositions
or leaves participles
among other things
dangling.

But I do just fine
weaving in and out of highway traffic
in my truck on the ride home from work
windows down, wild hair waving in synch
with the blasting music
too miserable to sound good at such levels.
I dodge police radar
karmic car accidents
and the Good Lord's Lightning
with equal dexterity
always making it home
mostly intact
aside from a few burns
from the soldering torch
and shoulders sore
from humping pipe.

Still, that's not to say
that it's always open lanes
and exact change.

Sometimes it's like
that void in the sill
between the glass and screen
paved with chipped white paint
that grasshopper legs
and dead flies
line

but I've got to admit
that if the last fading rays of sun
hit it just right
even that grotesque scene
can be beautiful.

And at the end of the day
I'm always reminded
that I have friends
who turn the lights out
when they leave
my house at night.

Those are the best kind.