I have remained here
for many long years;
never quite sure how
to deftly strike a common
10 penny straight and true;
fearful of not being safely
grounded on the third
aluminum step beneath
a bird’s nest of hot and
cold circuitry dangling
ominously above.
I once knew a welder
whose name was Arthur.
I watched him don his
iron mask and melt steel
with a flame as bright as
the sun. I proudly held
his spark lighter and
obediently shifted my
gaze to the sky. I once
knew a stone mason
named Patrick, and for
him I carried three parts
sand to one part Portland.
He used a trowel like
a pastry chef. And what
of the lumberjack; face
weathered and smile
perfect? I detested his
dedication, his skill,
his pristine heavy duty
Silverado. He told me
that dead trees don’t
catch the wind. I told
him nothing.
Among the Skilled by William A. Greenfield | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
William Greenfield is the author of four books of poetry: “Momma’s Boy Gone Bad” (Finishing Line Press), “I Should Have Asked the Blind Girl to Dance” (Flutter Press), “The Circadian Fallacy.” (Kelsay Book) and “The Ever Shrinking Universe” (Broadstone Books). His poems have also appeared in dozens of journals, including The Westchester Review, The American Journal of Poetry and many others. He lives in Liberty, New York with his wife, son, and a dog, always a dog.
