Straight Lines

The dawn cracks like an eggshell on a skillet
And the icy air waits just beyond breakfast
Quiet jelly toast is eaten off familiar forks
His once frostbit hand has yet to be gloved

The bright sun is as cold as the conversation
Where words are few his voice is strong
Shared silence is the music of the unheated cab
Broken only by the telling of his same stories

The frozen dirt shines its brown brightness
On the braced walls of suburban sameness
I continue to help him construct the future
In the form of a new houses for strangers.

The clouds dance along the top of new walls
Where he stands casting winter shadows
Taking measurements and figuring angles
Because he still build houses with straight lines.