Hammering

It starts early these dark mornings,
long before the sun is a gray smudge
behind the clouds and fog.
Hammering.
It goes on all day,
except for a lunch break
and then until well after dark.
That’s when he lights a lamp,
his shadows large on the inside walls.
I watch him from my windows,
the young builder of a large house,
unrolling the black paper on the roof,
tacking a billowing blue tarp
across the high peak,
storms on the way.
He works alone,
a solo ballet,
conscious of every step,
what tool to reach for.
Sometimes he waves.

Barbara Wolf (2006)


Hammering - Part II

Those late nights–
he should be home
having dinner with his wife
or soaking in a hot tub
to soothe his aching body.
But there he is on the roof,
a rope tied around the brick chimney,
the other end around his thigh.
I tip my wine glass to him,
he bows with a flourish.
He loses his footing,
He’s falling down the rough shakes.
He grasps at air, the blue tarp,
but it tears like so much gauze.
He’s falling over the side,
dangling by one leg.
I hear sirens.
There are firemen and a ladder.
One grabs him in his arms.
I sigh and turn over
and see the clock.
It’s 6am.
And then I hear it.
Hammering.

Barbara Wolf (2006)