The Finish Carpenter
       

Half million, and what? Cardboard subfloors—
crap, but all right. Vinyl-sided chimney.
Looks like shit, but can't be seen indoors,
that's something. But, Jesus, what you can see:

door frames, wall openings, kitchen pass through—
no moldings. Nothing. It's like a face
without eyebrows. Or ears. And we're talking new
construction, nice street. There's window casing,

I guess we should be grateful. But they're my folks—
pop was an architect—and I say, look, dad,
I'll bring my god-damned miter saw. He walks
away from me, shaking his head. Glad

to do it, I say. Take me a day. He shrugs,
I see his shoulders move, his hand sweep down
in front of his face like he's clearing bugs
or a smell. Why not, dad? Just a little crown

in the den, some chair rail. He's seventy.
What happens—shit ceases to matter
at that age? Come on, I say. No filigree,
just finishing. You still have that step ladder,

right? He's on the couch now, remote in hand,
surfing. I don't get it. I don't. Fine
corners, cornice, some detail, a few planned
correspondences. Why not? Some lines

to guide the space, hold it together. It frames
the parts. Gives shape. An order. Some wood.
That's all I want for him. No games,
just shape, a little grace. He's my blood;

I want him to have it nice. Mirrors and smoke,
he says, not looking up. He's been saying it
to me twenty years, since I went broke
fixing my first place. Prewar, Sears kit

with nothing plumb, and me wild on the phone
raving about warped floor joists and plaster.
Smoke and mirrors, he said. And that's it. Done.

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Copyright © 2020 Benjamin S. Grossberg All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission