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Poem

the trowel back pushed   fresh tempered mortar
 lifted to scoop the hard cream wave
Shook  to anchor the load
Then slid across the back edge of the growing wall
His reach stilled as he raised the half empty tool point up
To fill the closer edge on  the return swipe
Reaching for more in the same rhythmic bend
His left hand lifted  a cement block from the pile
He stood it end up at his feet
Slid the towel’s left edge across it
Then the right back toward him 

The trowel stuck handle up
As he lifted the block over the guideline
Then down against the last block laid and buttered
He gently rocked it in cut off the excess
Then used it to butter the block he’d just laid
The mortar was perfect
Not too firm to need tapping level
and not too wet  to squeeze out low

He couldn’t  figure out what he’d done wrong this time
But obviously  it was the last straw
What is it with women anyway
Why do they need to be assured every minute that they’re loved
What’s wrong with being taken for granted
As far as he was concerned things were fine
Except it was like walking thru stacks of eggs
On broken glass trying to talk to her
Ted added more mortar to the tub
Folded it in with the  round shovel blade
Then went back for more
Janis was wailing in the background
The old man was in the trailer with the foreman
Six floors down
The staging was stocked
The brickies were quiet
All was right with the world

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