Driving up the street toward my neighbor’s house
in a beat-up red piece of shit,
fender bashed in and door barely hanging on,
he veers wildly, runs over curb,
and bangs back onto the street.
Not an accident, just the way he drives,
a dude who’s come to help cut a tree
and pick up the branches after the storm.
He jumps out of the car, cigarette
dangling out of his mouth,
in jeans, boots, bright blue cap.
He’s tall, muscular, shirtless,
covered with tattoos on back and front;
the most prominent one looks
from a distance like a cross,
but turns out to be a hug Libran scale,
complemented by starbursts on the shoulder blades.
Can’t get a close enough look to
sort out exactly what’s on his chest and arms.
After a few minutes of work, he’s hot and sweaty,
his rippling muscles shining with perspiration,
pecs and biceps hardening as he raises
a log overhead like a barbell,
glutes firm under snug jeans as he lifts.
I think one of my trees might need trimming.
T. Allen Culpepper