Forge Ahead

Forearms thick,
sparse arm hair sprinkled
like loose grain o'er Roman field
were his tools which held the tools:

hammer
tongs
soldering gun.

Hephaestaus
at his craft
ignored the crass
his fleeting lass
upturned at him
when she visited
that armored ass.

Dipped in oil molass
a bent and folded spade
not unlike the black cards he played
with friends in a late night bar
attached itself to a round beam of pine
chopped, cropped, and sanded
to smooth imperfection
a loose grain here
an unruly knot there
a sliver to remember her by.

He made statuettes
          a skeletal monster with martini glass raised
and bronze sculptures
          faces three in all directions but north
and manly-nerd-trinkets
          mjolnir, cap's shield, black bolt's tuning fork
but not once
did he make
something useful.

He waited months
to use the gift he gifted himself
for the gift he gifted later
to become ungifted and
          instead of ignited like
          the house she burnt before
he channeled Peter Gabriel
before Willy Porter
and began the dirt
three feet down, four feet wide, three feet long
a burial without pomp
and circumstances dictated by stances
stubborn, uncured, soured
by soothsayers
who were no better than
the worms that chewed the black sharpied words
scrawled on the side of the box

buried beneath a fresh roll
of Kentucky blue.