The Affluence of Drywall

My father's grey hair
was lightly dusted by the chalky powder of
drywall. His trade, his life
resided in the half-inch thick soft grey walls
into which he put metallic black screws.
Sunday was my time to sit and listen
to the melody of ear piercing clinks and clanks--
metal on metal choirs singing in chorus
with the jingle of tool belts.

I spent most of my mornings among the skeleton houses,
which held dead flies on unfinished window sills;
shreds of sheet-rock cleaned trim by a box knife.
My father's tools were stunning and unkind.
At any moment, his shimmering ax hammer
could break through the body of wall he so carefully placed and loved;
his yellow-black gun hung on his hip--
a hornet seething to strike; to sting the walls with intent;
to break the board only enough to make it strong.

He said to me, "The walls at your home
are made of this dry rock.
Underneath us all is this home,"

and with coarse hands he touched
the wall.
I sat there spellbound, persuaded
I was the wall,
or at least wanted to be.