Hardhat Jesus

Work starts early before the heat comes,

the sky bruise-blue as he stretches his legs.

When he puts on his hardhat, yesterday’s

sweat greets him, salty, cool, familiar.

There is something he loves in each

jobsite: the fresh sawdust smell, the newness

of raw wood, walking through the ribs

of a house and tracing all its bones as it knits

together. At noon he drinks black coffee

crackling with ice under the cedar trees

and listens to the foreman talk about

his daughter. When it becomes too hot

to bear, they set the planks down, the sander

and hammer and screw, to wait for the bus,

chewing on sunflower seeds and peanuts and

nicotine gum to keep the smell from their clothes.

Sitting on an upturned gallon bucket, he pares

his nails with the pocketknife his mother gave him.

She asks when he’ll go out into the world,

when he’ll finally do what he’s been called to.

Oh, mother, blessed are these hands and the dirt

I scrub from them. Blessed are these sunburnt

forearms and all that they carry. Blessed are these

heavy boots and the dust I’ll shake from them.

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