The Good Joint

He moved the box, a grunt, then stopped to stare.

"This shelf," he said, "it's solid, still right there."

And patted the rough pine, the grain I knew.

A little flush, a bit of honest hue.

I thought of evenings, sawdust in my hair,

the careful measure, the insistent prayer

that every cut, each angle, would be true.

The patience, stretched, to make the pieces cleave anew.

The dovetails weren't perfect, not quite neat,

a little gap where edges failed to meet.

But glue held fast, the screws dug in with might.

It stood for years, through dark and morning light.

Still holds the books, the weight of all that read.

A simple promise, stubbornly well-fed.