I have known the art of work
drawn long and gray across my father’s face
as the jack arches and repetitions
of brick courses, soldiers and sailors alike,
lay grim reminders that no collar joint
connects sincerely the man and the monument.

No crack control saves, no cantilever holds,
no expansion anchor roots to satisfaction.

Though I have seen the sublime Victorian weave,
skillful Flemish bond, rolling caramel buttresses
at supernatural angles, dogtooth and crow stepping,
cathedraling into the branches of ancient Osage orange
and American elms. An art of work I was once

proud of and even teared up in saying so. But since,
I have grown to know he hated every second of it.