A little hint of sawdust in the air,
Mixed with the aftersmells of paint and glue
Which cling together to the clothes you wear
Like cheap cologne; the screaming of a screw
Tearing into not-quite-yielding wood;
Pneumatic puffs, electric motor yells,
The hooting of a handsaw; good is good
But done is better; how a paint stain tells
A story that no novel could improve;
The constant motion, everything in sync;
A new piece fitting in a precut groove;
The way you improvise; the way you think-
It all intoxicatingly feels like
A home - at least until we come to strike.
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