WHAT IT’S REALLY LIKE TO BE A WRITER (OR WHAT IT’S LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO DO ANYTHING)

i find a tree and chop the wood
then take a limb and skin a branch
then drag the lumber bundled good
to where i plan to start my ranch
i’m young enough to dig the hole
to form foundation in the mud
i mix concrete with all my soul
and build a frame with all my blood
i cut my hand to make a trowel
and with its edge lay plaster thick
i run the wires through the bowel
i make with clay and stagger brick
i cut a space to set a door
and to the frame i nail a hinge
a shingled roof a wooden floor
a flowerbed for fancy fringe
once young enough to chop that tree
to skin that branch and dig that hole
and though i’m proud of what i see
i’ve suffered now a builder’s toll
and as i rest in what i’ve done
the work that’s left me warm but weak
you have the nerve to ask for one
and beg to have it by next week