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      April 27, 2013DeAnna JonesCreation

      I have things to write about
      but I’m choosing to sit here
      with the UPS truck
      outside in my driveway,
      man in brown shorts,
      muscled thighs,
      black hair on his calves.
      I don’t look at his face
      right away.

      I watch the quads,
      the flex under his flesh,
      thinking about the mechanics
      of function and beauty,
      the movement inside watches,
      fuse boxes with their tiny
      battery sized parts,
      the inside of phone wires, cables,
      blue and white, yellow and white,
      my husband’s face
      when he takes apart mother boards
      or opens a set of Craftsman drill bits,
      boxes of screws,
      flat head nails, bolts,
      gold and silver hooks.

      I see a man walking towards me
      made by something
      that loves making,
      loves the large strength of power,
      fused together a machine
      that can lay down a box
      half the length of a grown man’s body,
      smile a set of white wide teeth
      and ask me to sign.

      from #21 - Summer 2004