Old Turret
you saw the nearness of things:
train depot, baseball stadium,
river, the bridge to Canada,
a college on the far shore.
In flat places a bungalow peak
opens vistas. A tower almost
beyond your ladder’s reach
left you perched on roof jacks,
peering into other worlds. How
close they seem, you’d have
told someone, but a turret
is a solo task and, hearing,
your crew would’ve never
looked up from loading tools
into a truck, from the soft
curses and sweeping that end a day.
The low sun kept you
moving, tab by graveled tab,
hammer echoing in still air.