Why am I standing
here with my back
to the wind
watching
the rafters
be raised?
Me of the wobbly legs.
Me of the valium eyes.
I’m maybe good to carry
nails, fetch
the four-foot level,
to and fro,
to and fro.
Little dinky things.
Why am I standing anywhere
watching anyone work?
A year ago this wind
picked me
like a candy wrapper
up, scattered me
and all my brothers inland.
But now I’m here,
not limp in bed,
not being wheeled down corridors,
but here! & below two men
who wield as wands
hammers twenty ounces each.
I’m here because I’m here,
same as the wind,
the wind that curves around me,
praises my scanted substance,
confides that I stand
here as a post.