I like to eat crackers with government
cheese, then talk about my favorite
genuflector and mower of lawns:
a khaki’d soul who goes down
to the basement where he comes down
with the whittling bug, carves circling
snakes, small birds into sassafras, sits
and transmutes into chair. He says,
Wait for a sign if nothing feels fine.
Lord, heal his numb from the night arm.
Give him a merit badge for mundanity.
He’s solid, practically kudzu-choked:
I love him so much it’s an industry.