by Not-Ogden Nash, Not-Billy Collins, Not-Bo Burnham, but Trying Heroically
I was fixing the porch on a Tuesday bright,
the kind of day that forgives a man’s overconfidence outright.
The air was smug, the robins staged a choir,
and I, fool of hope, picked up a hammer to inspire.
Alas, my thumb! It rose too soon -
met metal’s sermon beneath the noon.
A thunk. A yelp. A choreography obscene.
The neighbors witnessed faith...unseen -
as I waltzed across the deck in tongues,
reciting psalms unsuited for young lungs.
(Editor’s note: the author survived, but the porch did not.)
I cursed the hammer, cursed the board,
cursed every saint carpenters adored.
Then drove, thumb throbbing, soul in flames,
to that cathedral of tools with brand-name names.
Sears. (May it rest in capitalist peace.)
There, amid aisles of chrome and grease,
a nailgun gleamed like revelation...
pneumatic proof of human salvation.
“Behold,” I whispered, “technology divine,
that keeps the flesh and folly mine.”
One-fifty bucks - no tithe too steep
for a miracle I could truly keep.
Back home, the air hissed like prayer.
Each nail found its mark with engineered flair.
No blisters, no blood, no holy despair,
just the hum of precision, forgiveness, and air.
And I thought: maybe this is grace -
to suffer, then upgrade the interface.
Maybe the world hums on because we do -
our bruises traded for something new.
Now every project begins with a vow:
no hammers, no hubris - just faith and pow.
My thumb, repentant, has learned to refrain.
Salvation, it turns out, runs on compressed air and pain.
So if you ever seek meaning in splinters and screws,
remember: redemption comes with an Allen wrench too.
Progress may buzz where patience once bloomed -
but hallelujah, friend - vroom, vroom, vroom.
GBS
2009
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