The Man in the Hallway

I found his old level and a tape made of steel

in a box in the garage near the bags of the lime.

He never asked how I happened to feel,

he just showed up to work and he stayed on his time.

There’s a thumbprint of grease on the yellowing scale

where he pulled out the inches to measure the frame.

He’d hammer the stud and he’d sink every nail

in a house where nobody carried his name.

The screen door still swings with a quiet, smooth click

because he spent a Saturday kneeling in dirt.

He was the mortar that made the bricks stick,

without ever mentioning where it might hurt.