by David Reames
Monday morning his boots were heavy
and this made it so much easier for him
to descend into a million tons
of concrete
shadows.
His heavy boots dragged him down and down
away from all the windows and doors
to where the shadows were hot and syrupy
and upon his skin they
put their ink.
Tuesday morning his hat was heavy
and this made it much quicker for him
to sink into a thousand tons
of robots going about their
business.
Upon his heavy hat, down his collar
a shower of sparks which used to remind
him of the Fourth of July, but don’t
anymore.
Wednesday morning his coat was heavy
and this made it simple for him
to plunge into a hundred tons
of electric,
oiled air.
Inside his heavy coat, he smelled sweat
and the heavy black carbon stains that
pulled the coat down on his shoulders and kept
telling himself he once had a father who
could fix cars.
Thursday morning his belt was heavy
and so it was no real difficulty
to bury himself in ten tons
of greasy air that went vibrating
into his lungs.
His belt was good leather and he had once
carved a great elk from oak that the mayor
had begged to buy. How it had felt
to shape the wood like that! But he doesn’t
carve no more.
Friday morning his hands were heavy
and so with no real effort, he was
drawn down into one ton
of inert gas, to do that one thing, the same
thing the only thing over and over and
his hands did their work divorced from his mind
and the robots came and removed his work
from his sight and so his hands could not find
the way to himself, could not see the elk
in the oak.
Saturday morning his bones were heavy
and so it was very difficult for him
to pull himself into the weightless
sunlight that warmed the oak
slab waiting for him on his workbench. His
heavy bones held his fingers down upon
the grain of the stump he bought
with the money from the mayor. His hands,
so stained with shadows, couldn’t see the secret
in the wood.
Sunday morning the shadows were heavy
on his hands and it was impossible
for him to wash their infinite weight
from his knuckles and palms, even
though he used the big bristle brush.
The shadows, like ink, remained and so he
sat in his chair and drank beer and
watched the television and rubbed
and held his hands
up before his face
and sighed over the shadows.
His wife came and asked him why he was still
sitting in that chair. He showed her his hands
and she touched them and unsmiling, nodded.
His oldest boy came and wanted to watch
the game on TV, but he hid his hands
in the chair cushions and soon the boy left.
His youngest girl came and sat in his lap
She traced the lines of shadow with very
soft, small fingers. She hummed into his hands.
At last he left his chair and his beer and
his television. He went to his wood
shed and with a grunt heaved the chunk of oak
aside and laid down on the cold floor and
pulled all of the sawdust over himself
until the shadows, all
of them, could no
longer be
seen.
David Reames is a professional artist and writer. He is a senior in the NYUSPS Creative Writing program and lives in Manhattan with his wife and their rescue dog.