The Weighty Accomplishment

When he finished the first draft,
At the wheelchair-height table
That used to be his father’s

In the yellow back-bedroom
That used to be his sisters’,
And printed the whole thing out—

But before he mailed it off
Down south to his advisor
For feedback and corrections—

He carried it to the shop
Where his father was at work
At the roaring table-saw

To show him. —Here’s what I’ve been
Working on for seven months.
His father turned off the saw,

Lifted the brick of pages
With both hands, tilted it up
To glance at the title page,

Then dropped it on the table.
Picked it up. Let it go. Thump.
Higher, and let it fall. Thump!

—That’s a lot of words. You wrote
All of this? His son nodded,
Not confessing quotations.

—Hey, look how much my kid wrote.
Can you imagine writing
This much? (Lift. Drop. Thump!) A book!