The right man for the job.

The pit of my stomach spat on my lungs in disgust
as I hit a pothole the size of a small child.
I felt like the hubcap I'd seen leaning against a speed limit sign
a few miles back, praying to be reclaimed--
the worst part being that it was my own fault as usual.

It had almost been a year since
someone had plowed into the sign
in front of the local volunteer ambulance corps.
The culprit must've been well over the legal limit
since the sign was a good thirty feet
from the road. Even I don't drive after that many.
It took them three months
just to remove the broken cinder blocks and wood debris.
Volunteers must be a dying breed.
There was yellow CAUTION tape
wrapped tightly around the scene like dismal garland.
It was an eyesore that reminded me
to be grateful that it hadn't been me
behind the wheel or in front of the hood.

I was on my way home from a memory today
when I saw the latest development
in the sign's slow restoration: a man in a trench
around the perimeter of the four-by-six foundation
preparing a solid bed of dirt on which to lay his block.
I say "his block" because it was just that; there were
no scrawny teenagers looking to make a summertime buck
or underpaid Latinos looking to feed a family.
It was simply the man, his trade, and a labor of love.
I could tell he wasn't getting paid for the job
by the look on his face, the sway in his step, the arch in his back.
It takes a man who works with his hands to notice these things.

The sun was at its golden peak and my lap was very empty.
The mason was in his late fifties, a yellow sleeveless shirt
showing decades worth of sun-spots on his shoulders.
He wore a large-brimmed straw hat as if he were in his garden
and didn't seem to care how long it took
to tamp the dirt down with his feet in that trench
so long as it got done
and got done right.

He wanted it to be better than the last.
His name would be on it.
His dinner would be on the table when he got home
and his wife of thirty years would rub the skin cancer
right out of those weary shoulders after his nightly shower.
They'd make new love and fall asleep mid-chapter afterwards.

It wasn't the first time I was jealous of a man closer to death.