Twenty Minutes

Twenty minutes, he said.

The shovel blade went down

easy at first, then it hit

something solid underground.

I pulled up, moved six inches,

tried again. That flat sound—

metal on something brown

and dense that wouldn't move.

My hands got raw by hour one.

By hour two I understood:

some things don't budge, don't bend.

The hole is barely wider than

when I started. He came out

with coffee, didn't speak a word.

We both knew what he'd heard

before—some work just doesn't pay.

Some problems have no way.