POETRY: LABOR DAY

	September 2, 2002
	Former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky reads a poem about labor.

ROBERT PINSKY: Poet Mark Turpin works as a carpenter, and sometimes he writes about construction with a deep, wondering appreciation. Here, for Labor Day, is Mark Turpin's poem "The Box": When I see driven nails I think of the hammer and the hand, his mood, the weather, the time of year, what he packed for lunch, how built-up was the house, the neighborhood, could he see another job from here? And where was the lumber stacked, in what closet stood the nail kegs, where did the boss unroll the plans, which room was chosen for lunch? And where did the sun strike first? Which wall cut the wind? What was the picture in his mind as the hammer hit the nail? A conversation? Another joke, a cigarette or Friday, getting drunk, a woman, his wife, his youngest kid or a side job he planned to make ends meet? Maybe he pictured just the nail, the slight swirl in the center of the head and raised the hammer, and brought it down with fury and with skill and sank it with a single blow. Not a difficult trick for a journeyman, no harder than figuring stairs or a hip and valley roof or staking out a lot, but neither is a house, a house is just a box fastened with thousands of nails.