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

zigzaggingly asymmetrical.

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.