Wordsmith

He makes a living
Building things with his hands
But his fervent passion
Is constructing things
With words.

He is always
Talking
To himself.

Within his head
Or without.

He can be overheard
Conversing
To the air
Tumbling words
Sitting at a table
In a coffee shop
Or standing
Smiling
Somewhat pervertedly
At the frumpy girl
In the check-out line
At the local supermarket.

He has the widest smile.

Big square perfect teeth
And squinty eyes.

Frumpy check-out girls
Can’t resist him
And the turned up corners
Of his mouth.

Roy
The man
With the carpenter’s tan.

A glass half-full kind of guy.

Once in awhile
He can be found
Soliciting words
On the canal path

Late at night.

He even talks in his sleep.

Words jumping fences
One by one
In Dreamland.

How do I know?

Oh, I get it.

No.

It isn’t like that.

We were just cuddling
On the sofa
One night.

My head upon
His hairy chest.

Roy stroking
My brow
Innocently
As he was borne
Off to sleep.

We were listening
To music
On the stereo.

Barry Manilow.

“Looks like we made it…”

I could hear his heart
And his breathing
And the verbs and constanants
Adjectives, alliterations
Pronouns, prepositions
Interjections, modifiers
All spinning around
In capital and lower case
Deep within his rib cage
Like a tumble-dry high-cycle
In the laundry
Before spilling out
Of his wide
Flat
Picket-fence
Grill.

I lifted my head
To look up
At his cherub face
And closed eyes.

I promised him
Pancakes
In the morning
With Amish butter
And real maple syrup.

He responded
Sleepily
With words
And still more
Poetry.