I’m no good at hammering nails
or sawing straight, presaged
in kindergarten by my inability
to color inside the lines —
My Friend Flicka’s brown coat
Pressing down too hard,
clutching the crayon as if someone
might try to snatch it away,
too much in a hurry,
I would give up and flip the page,
start anew, scribbling colors,
blunting the tips of the crayons.
Now I beat the bent nail into treated lumber
to protect barefooted grandchildren.
Unusual high tides have lifted
dock planks divorced from rusty nails.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
That’s it: it’s time to call a handy man.