I almost finished a project this morning. 

I say almost because it's on on-going project,

One which really has no end, or beginning.

This morning I reached a point where

I can say, it's done for now, and let it rest.

As I shut down the chainsaw, put away

My fencing pliers and Eastwing hammer,

Put the unused staples back in the box,

Took off my hearing protection, put 

The pinch bar back in the wagon, picked up

All the tops, the fence posts tops which 
I had cut off, the few extra inches in order

To make the fence posts even, put those

Tops in the wagon to take to the dump,

When I had done all that I began to look

Around for my next project, it was only

Ten o’clockish, it didn't take long to find a chore

Wanting doing. The blackjack oaks in the woods

Are like the fence, they need attention 

All the time, and the kind of attention 

They need requires a chainsaw. Blackjack

Are my nemesis, though I appreciate their

Hardiness, I don't care for their invasive ways,

Bullies, they are, intruders, and so I cut them,

Or, a few, as there are thousands of them.

I have less than thousands of hours at hand,

So, I cut a few, which is no small chore,

Cut and split some for firewood, saved the rest

For another day, headed home to unhook

The wagon, put away the tools. In the process

I backed the wagon in the brush hog,

Smashing the wagon’s tail light, so I

Went to the shop, got my tools, took off 

The busted light to replace the next time

I go to town, put away those tools. In the 

Shop I found a pack rat that Ralph the Cat

Had wounded, but not killed. I inspected

The little guy, he was unconscious, breathing

Shallowly, I could feel his heart beat, faintly,

I suspected his neck was broken, one good

Cat-shake will do that. I set him down 

On my work bench, debating whether 

To dispatch it. I let it be, I've dispatched

More animals than I care to remember,

And the little guy wasn't suffering. He'll 

Be dead in an hour or two. With all the tools

Put away, I went in the house to clean up.

Which I've done. The weather forecast

Had been calling for thunderstorms all day.

I know better. The sky is blue. Forecasting

The weather should be left to those who work

Outside, who can taste the air and know.

While I was doing all this I was thinking,

Posing a question which I've asked myself

A million times, and know the answer, but,

Am not satisfied with my answer: why do I 

Work so hard but play so little? The answer

I tell myself is that I'm a quiet guy that likes

Simple pleasures, and it is good answer, 

And true, as far as it goes; but, there is more

To it, I know, and I can't put my finger

On what I'm not telling myself, why the 

Aversion to bars and line-dancing and 

Football games. What do people do 

For fun? I play the guitar. I read. I work

In the woods, see, I work for fun. Why?

Actually, I know why, in part, there are 

Some bad things that come to mind when

I stop working, so I don't stop. That's part 
Or it, but, still, not all of it. Another part

Is that I enjoy working, which is fine, but

Shouldn't I enjoy playing just as much?

Joe likes archery, skiing, and sailing. We 

Had a sailboat years ago, but no time to sail.

I'd like to try archery, as for skiing, I used

To ski, but we worked all winter, so I 

Had to let it go, besides my knees advised

Me that I'd better reconsider. I used to fly,

I loved that, taking up my little Cessna.

Then 9/11 shut down the world of private

Aviation, then the price of gas became 

Prohibitive, so I let that go. I got a motorcycle,

Then traded it for another, traded it 

For another, now I have my little baby Kaw,

Which I ride on the Missouri backroads,

So what the hell am worrying and fussing

About? I play plenty. I play guitar twice

A week with some old coots like myself,

I work in the woods, I ride my bike, 

Martha and I visit our out-of-town friends

Every month or so, we go to the Butterfield

Limited for tenderloin sandwiches and

Sweet tea, Khede's for bar-be-cue, Panera

For yuppie fare, Starbuck's for over-priced

Coffee, what more could I want, or do?

We visit the kids in L.A., go to museums,

The beach; go to Ely Minnesota every other

Summer for a week with friends; but, here it is—

Something is missing, and for the life of me

I can't see what it is. It's elusive, it has 

Something to do with cutting loose, letting 

Myself go, doing . . . I guess doing the things

I've imagined doing, which aren't always . . .

I have a good imagination, sometimes . . .

There are things I will never do, sensations

I will never feel, and I guess that's what

I'm getting at. A certain part of me wants

What it will never have. I think that's it.

So it is, so it will be, so it must be. I'm looking

Out the window. There are dark clouds,

But the sun is out as well, there are

Patches of sunlight and shade, it's dramatic.

I hear birdsong and wind. I checked

On the rat, it’s dead. It looks like a big mouse,

Not a big rat. It's cute, though dead.

I'm actually thinking of Elle right now, 

Nothing to do with rats, no, I’ve been

Thinking about the picture she has 

Of herself sitting on rock. The rock, 

The size and slope, reminds me of a rock

In Greece, in Corfu, my brother and I 

Sat upon, on the coast. We were camping, 

Living in a cave, actually, and spent the day

In the shelter of the cave, the sun being

Overpowering. We were lobster red

After being careless the first day there.

We had come from Ireland, then Paris, 

Craved the sun. We got it. But, in the 

Evenings, after walking into town and 

Having diner at Dimitri's, we would sit

On the rock and read, watching the sunset.

We were quite protective of our rock,

And were horrified when some Germans

Came with rock hammers, chipped out

All the quartz formations, and went on.

I will not write what I'm thinking. I hope

Elle's rock has some good memories 

For her. My brother learned that our rock

Has been replaced by condos. So it goes.

Last night something was in the yard

Digging up the newly seeded lawn

I had put around the redbud tree.

Armadillos, probably, but I'm not sure.

That means I'll have to get up during 

The night with a flashlight and try 

To shoot the varmit. Last year they

Torn up an acre of lawn while we were 

In L.A. I killed five or six when we 

Got home. Armadillos are like blackjacks

Invasive, unnatural, and they have almost 

No enemies, though I think a coyote

Or a bobcat might take one, given

A growling belly. I wouldn't. They are

Cute, I mean, not in a traditional way,

And I don't like shooting anything, 

But I will. And do. It's hard to shoot 

At night while holding a flashlight. It may 

Not have been an armadillo, it may 

Have been a raccoon, I hate those more 

Than 'dillos. it may have been a skunk,

Possibly a possum. Possums are my favorite 

Woodland creature. One of the first poems

I wrote, as an adult, was about a possum.

It was called The Well-Read Possum.

Possums are so hideous that only a mother

Could love them, and they bring out

The mother in me, apparently. They're 

Harmless, and kill a lot of ticks and grubs.

Whatever it was, I'm going to do my 

Utmost to dispatch it because I put a lot

Of time and effort into reseeding the lawn.

I actually teared up when I saw the damage.

I'm such a dope. I tear up at Budweiser

Commercials, the ones with the Clydsdales,

So tearing up isn't particularly significant.

But I can be a hard case when I have

To be. I always tried to be a good and fair

Boss to my employees, but there were times . . . 

So. The fence is done for now. The posts

I pounded in will last a year or two or three,

Then I'll have to begin replacing them.

I could use steel posts, and I do, only

Not along the road. I don't like steels posts,

They have zero charm. I buy wooden

Posts, sharpened them pound them in.

It's fun. The wind is picking up, maybe

It will rain after all. We're do for storms,

Here it is late April and we haven't 
Had tornados or hail yet. We will, unless,

Of course, we don't. We usually do.

We lost a barn once to a tornado, took 

The barn, scattered it across three pastures,

But left the hay in it untouched. Maybe

It was a straight-wind, not a tornado.

Could be. We get those too. A few years

Ago we lost a hundred big old oaks

To a straight wind. It was this time

Of year, the trees had leafed out, and those

Sails caught the wind and down they

Went like dominos. What a mess. 

It broke my heart, because the ones

That went down were the biggest, tallest,

And oldest. So it goes. All the time I'm 

Writing this I'm thinking about Countryfog,

Who loves nature so much, and Larry,

Who loves motorcycles, and I imagine

Them reading this and wondering how

In the world I'm going to wrap this up.

Bonus Poem

(I apologize for the misogynistic tone,

it's a dumb-ass poem.)

The End of Jackson

Jackson fell off the steeple

fell off the damn thing

bounced once

and that was the end of Jackson.

His dog was sad.

His wife was elated.

She bought herself

a makeover

and a righteous set of tits.

But she missed Jackson.

For the life of her

she couldn't say why.

No one could.

No one thought to ask the dog.

Double Bonus Poem

The Well Read Possum

Wild Nights—Wild Nights! 

Were I with thee 

Wild Nights should be 

Our luxury!

—Emily Dickinson 

Mrs. O'Possum looks at her litter of eight 

and shudders. 

This is going to take some getting used to, she thinks. 

The wind rustles her coat 

and her eyes close in memory of Mr. O'Possum, 

lately of the Woods, 

who went foraging one cool evening and never returned. 

The wind picks up. 

His legacy is, oh, I hate to say it, hideous. 

But, the nights we had, she thinks. Wild Nights, Wild Nights!

I reckon these are faces only a mother could love, she sighs, 

lying down on her side affording access. 

Mind the teeth. 

Darlings.