WHAT IT’S REALLY LIKE TO BE A WRITER (OR WHAT IT’S LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO DO ANYTHING)

i find a tree and chop the wood

then take a limb and skin a branch

then drag the lumber bundled good

to where i plan to start my ranch

i’m young enough to dig the hole

to form foundation in the mud

i mix concrete with all my soul

and build a frame with all my blood

i cut my hand to make a trowel

and with its edge lay plaster thick

i run the wires through the bowel

i make with clay and stagger brick

i cut a space to set a door

and to the frame i nail a hinge

a shingled roof a wooden floor

a flowerbed for fancy fringe

once young enough to chop that tree

to skin that branch and dig that hole

and though i’m proud of what i see

i’ve suffered now a builder’s toll

and as i rest in what i’ve done

the work that’s left me warm but weak

you have the nerve to ask for one

and beg to have it by next week