there is magic in concrete
if you believe
trenching,
building forms
at some point it’s inevitable:
you are on your knees in mud
your eye to the earth, your butt
to the air
for meticulous muscle-work
chop rebar in a shower of sparks
weaving steel rod, suspended
by wires, twist pliers
learn the names:
doughboy, waler
pier cage, stirrup
the mix, the pour
no second chances now
spread and level
wading in boots
shake the gray depths, vibrate
voids not welcome
then you work the surface
flat, in circles,
with the tool called a ‘float’
(because that’s what it does)
buoyant on a gray puddle
and here’s the enchantment
or else I’m just weird but
with fingertips on the handle you can
sense the wet concrete, the mojo
like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
sort of bouncy
as you stroke
hold the leading edge
at a slight upward angle
avoid plowing
pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is sucking cement
a final thin film, a pretty coat
over guts of gravel and sand
for a finish, swipe smooth
or brush
or groove,
edging, an art
now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
unless you scratch a name
honor the skilled arms,
the corded legs and vertebral backs
the labor that shaped
this odd stone
sculpted, engineered
implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives
©copyright 2015 by Joe Cottonwood. All rights reserved.
