A Gary Metras Poem

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It got to twenty-seven below that winter,
which is harsh for Massachusetts,
even as far west as the hills near Pittsfield.

I mixed stucco that week, by hand.
The mixing bed was splashed with ice.
We set it on the cement floor of a large box.

The box became a luxury condominium.
With every third pull of the hoe, I rested,
to let the lungs thaw, to exhale a cloud

and waste a moment watching my crystal breath.
Such scenery would never be framed
And hung on these walls when finished.

So I mixed it into the stucco.
And quit the job.

 

From "Working Words",
Edited by  M.L. Liebler (2010)