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Joe the Plumber Learns to Read
First he clears his throat.
Something in it
won't let words through.
His finger traces
shapes familiar, L's and U's,
bent and hollow.
S's are the
sh-h-h of clarity.
G-g-guhs the
hungry gulp of drains.
Teacher says, say plumb-er-r-r
and he says himself
in the crawl space,
flashlight turned
on pipe laid, all that
meaning, hot and cold,
the steady drip
of every day, clean hands,
clean feet, ice,
the child awake at night
pajamaed at the sink.
He knows this cryptic like
the pipework of his veins
but this laying out
of words is not
his language.
Oh, but how he loves
the flow, the
unobstructed gurgle.
Somewhere deep
within him is a well
he'll tap one day.
And words will run
like water, clear
and sure as rain
and quench his thirst
and wet his cracked,
dry throat.
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