Working Man

Washing off plaster dust
from my hands and forearms
in the bathroom of the
Indian restaurant,
I look up to see my reflection:
two days’ growth,
cap and T-shirt covered
with a palette of primer,
caulk and paint.
How different than last month,
in the guise of a teacher—
crisp in ironed clothes,
doing the ritual, handing out
the final exam.
Ha, this working man thinks.
Nothing’s final. Not an exam,
not work around the house,
certainly. A respite from stacks
of papers, students corralled into
attendance books and columns
of grades. Measurable progress,
now, as I wash the morning’s work
from my hands, and think of
smooth walls, new paint,
mitered molding,
pipes I can trust behind
crisp sheets of drywall.