The Lumberjack
His toque screamed French
Canadian, Jacques
I imagined; in profile a
prominent nose broken perhaps
in a brawl over a woman
named Suzette or
a close woods brush with a
falling widow
maker, bloody Niagara
soaking his flannel shirt,
dripping from the delta of
coarse lines describing
an unkempt beard that
smelled of cigarettes
and bug dope, trimmed, if
he trimmed at all, with a
sliver of band saw blade stuck
fast in a wad of tree gum,
whiskers after all
affording a degree of protection
from plagues of black
flies, already heavy and black
at thirteen, peppery checkered
flag for school,
entrée to the big woods, one
twinkling eye
nested in flesh crinkled
by smoke and ribald
bunkhouse jokes, widening
in mock surprise
at a sour note on the
ancient squeezebox
broken out and dusted off
on Saturday nights,
the one I didn’t draw carefully
in a slow
steady hand, embellishment
of any kind
sure to queer my chances
with the juror
poised to swing a bubbly
bottle of champagne
against the looming prow
of my boat
load of God-given talent,
a launch I await
patiently in these north woods,
a brief
break in this rhythmic waltz,
smoking
in the shade of all these
doomed trees.
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