What I Made

I built it in a fall when I was sure

about most things. Watched videos, bought the wood,

leveled it by eye. That corner never

sat quite right—I knew it, knew it would

give eventually. I shimmed it twice.

Let water find the gaps and told myself

it held. Last week it listed in the yard,

gray-soft at the base, the joint itself

just open. I pulled it board by board.

The smell was rot all the way through.

And stapled to the last post, still inside

a plastic bag, the instructions—new

and folded still. Numbered. Step four:

check all joints are flush and square.

I stood there with the rotted wood around me

and read it in the morning air

twice. As if the second time would matter.

The bag was dry. The wood was not.