saturday evening, after suppertime but before supperusing every minute of light
Dad mans the splitter, i collect and pile wood
fill my arms each load
fuller than full if Dad's watching
we work for hoursevery time he stops to help me catch up
a failure in my mind
i'm too young to prove i'm a man
old enough to prove i'll make a good one
the piling and stacking and walking
fight november 28th's cold air
Dad stops, stretches his back
looks at me
at the pile
at the splitter
flicks a small switch to OFF, and the machine coughs itself silent
we enter the house
where mum saved a hot supper
worthy of working men
real men
and men-to-be
a meal made all the better by a large helping of hunger
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