by Nancy Byrne Iannucci
Jim, my neighbor,
is the village Sam Elliot,
hair as thick as a horse’s mane
and gray like a January day.
He doesn’t have a mustache,
but his cigar replaces the vacancy,
floating in white clouds above his mouth.
Circles of sweet smoke
travel distances
like a Sioux medicine man.
He can heal trucks, cars, rider mowers,
and he can tell you exactly
why your “check engine” light is on.
He can transform an old church pew
into an Adirondack chair,
and when the sun drapes its final
pieces of golden cellophane
around his shed, you’ll find him sitting in it,
quiet and meditative.
Some Keep the Sabbath
going to church,
he keeps it
listening to the yawn of day
as it drifts away.
At night, he conjures,
hidden in his shed like a warlock.
Fireflies spit from its little chimney.
A welding chainsaw band
jams
until the tune is right.
One cold night,
my cat got out
and headed to his shed.
I chased her to the door.
He opened it holding a white box
full of little colorful bricks.
I apologized for interrupting him.
No, worries. he said, with a big smile.
I’m just playing with my Legos.