—eaten right

off the jackknife in

moons, half moons,

quarter moons and

crescents—

                    still

summon common

summer afternoons

I spent as my dad’s

jobsite grunt, framing

future neighbors’

houses out of 2x4s

and 4x6s,

                 and our

brief and silent pick-

up tailgate lunch-

box lunch breaks

of link sausage,

longhorn cheddar,

larder pickles, cold

leftover roast-beef-

and-butter sandwiches

wrapped in paper,

a couple of pippins

from the Fall Crick

Pick-n-Save, and—

flavored of tin from

the lip of the cup

of a dented thermos

passed between us—

a hard-earned share

of still-chill well

water…

              Now

so many waned and

waxed moons later,

another well-paid,

well-fed, college-

bred paper-pusher, I

wonder that I’ve never

labored harder, nor

eaten better.