That skywalker in the orange hardhat
has blond hair. It’s lying
damp on the nape of his neck.
His ebony back glints in the sun.
Runnels of sweat run down his sides.
Only his armpits hint of a lighter shade
of skin. He is a hula dancer
with a skirt of hammers, tapes
and other tools of his trade.
His thighs crowd against his cut off
jeans as he nonchalantly turns
his back on the height of
his predicament and mine,
but I’m not done with
this carpenter yet or
this precipice.

Published in Whistling Girls and Cackling Hens, 2003 Pudding House Press chapbook series