Wednesday, August 23, 2006


Frank casts his eyes down the long, winding street. There were hundreds of workers, like ants, busily constructing house after house. However, right now they weren’t houses at all—only shells. The air could still sweep through the open structures. This is how they all are in the beginning, but soon they would be caked with layers, with insulation, with plasterboard, with paint, with rooftops and shingles and decorative siding, and with storm windows and then screen doors. Impenetrable is what they become—except when, by some whimsy, the owner decides they want some fresh air, or maybe some sunlight. A feeling of childhood overcomes Frank, which sends a tear to embrace his eye. He stares, with wonder, at the pure and simple work of carpenters. Mollified, he looks forward to the day’s work.

1 comment:

Dr. Kat said...

Hmmm...I dig Frank's ability to be so introspective with labor. My parents are both factory workers, and they have never had the ability to do that.