[poem temporarily removed by author]

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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  1. The brew in the cup says bitter, but the tongue—/ the tongue wants to find its way to honey.

    HEWERS AND CARRIERS, H&C, Inc.

    Of what make, what calibre are you, hewer of wood?
    Which well do you fetch water from, carrier of water?
    Do measures count you at all as the universe turns?

    Hewer: I chopped wood to build catapults for Mt. Rushmore;
    Eiffel would be a fantasy without these fingers, mon ami.
    Grand blarney all that: just think of your country cottage.

    Carrier: Who would bring hard water pails for Chernobyl?
    Would Las Vegas glitter without my Hoover Dam water?
    Nah, all balderdash that: you’d stink without bath water.

    So, pin the medals on us, for all we care. Wood and water—
    that’s all you need whatever chill winter frost would bring,
    or thirst and sunburn infernal summer would pitch your way.

    We are a couple for the ages, hewer and carrier, H&C, Inc.,
    we do build homes, but look how without our wiles (services)
    this earth would still be canopy under a tent of stars.

    Rivers and oceans would still be playgrounds of sharks
    and goldfish, mountains would still be Bunyan’s frontiers
    where the oak is an oak not timber or log for a brothel cabin.

    Puny and downtrodden or spat upon? Hewer and Carrier,
    when coupled, though, turns brew to bittter, water to waste,
    fish to faeces. O, leave us to stay little, where our tongues

    would not wag about Afganistan, Libya, Iran, or Fukushima
    but do what tongues do, lick the sweet in the honey, moisten
    the welt on the wee one’s forehead bruise, say: luv ya, honey.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    04-10-11

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