The Maker
The maker never uses thread
Or string or broken sticks
Nor does he ever consult a book
Does it all from memory
Moving objects with a pool cue
He drums his fingers on a desk
When stuck or blocked
Puts on Mozart or the Beatles
His house is surrounded by trees
And mountain ranges
He once crossed a desert
To find a red coin
But now he mostly sits at his desk
Typing at a computer
That spring the bugs were bad
It’s not a memoir
Or an instructional manual
Only he really knows what it is
Words he might say
A bunch of words
They might lead somewhere
I’m not sure I’m still working on it
It’s in process
In flux
He is only partway done
Sometimes he will spend all afternoon
Painting a boat
Or talking to a class of teens
About the necessity of sin
Which is easier for them than algebra
Other times he can waste a day
Building a nest out of golden straw
Yes, he keeps touching things
At a small stream
A deer or moose comes to drink
He’s most proud of that.
