End of Day's Work

by Richard Dinges, Jr.

Sun already sucked
beneath earth’s dark
hump, air thickened
into gray gruel,
I teeter on a rock,
reach up for one
last screw to attach
this last tin sheet
on chicken coop
side, then slip
upended, a sudden
end against a rock,
against my back,
and stare into night’s
first star to hold
pain in my palm
as if that is all
I am made of.