Work Poem by Ryan Teitman

Some mornings, the clouds
settle rooftop low,
holding us in place
like a specimen slide.

I spend my days
wondering how a hammer
weighs the hand
that holds it,

or how the starlings apron
the stoplights
at Alcatraz
and Adeline.

A glassworker told me once
that she could tell
by the scars
who bandages their fingers

and who kisses closed
the wounds. I don't
know how
my father woke

hours before sunrise
each morning and worked
until long past sunset.
Sleep was a country

to retire to, an Ecuador.
I live where the light is
thin, and clothes us
like linen.

In the hills above town,
a black snake scrawls
across the path
like a signature.

I still have countries
left to discover, and ballets
of work
for my hands to learn.