Digging

Digging

Spencer seemed too cultured

to drive a backhoe

with his bobbed hair

quiet face

and shirt buttoned up

to the neck

He told me he didn't like

too much sun

and they teased him,

all the bare backs

sweating in June

Hey Spence!

Looks like snow today!

Spencer combs his iron claw

through soil

snags a stray root like

a seamstress

unstitching a thread

He slides the wide tracks

of his ten ton machine

between my pines

and my birch

never scraping a

single branch

The walls he digs

are deep and straight

and shaved smooth

to exact measurements

He slips gracefully down

from the iron cage

protecting his seat

How's that Scott?

He smiles, and then

as though he's wasted enough time

and is on to more important business

Uhm—your daughter's name?

Maegan, that's it

Tell her the cookies yesterday

were the best I ever had—

and, yes

I think it was the extra vanilla