Tile Draft 4

The art of losing is hard to master
and sounds like creaking knees
as I bend to tile a floor.
Drips of water saws drown the whir of blades
ripping squares of kitchen tiles.
Swipes of dulled blades to mortar
and plastic pegs to separate my work form yours.
I ease my way out of the back corner,
filled with broken webs,
one edged tile at a time, and
remind myself of the games we'd
invented. Dinosaurs and astronauts soon
paled to the magic of angolo and
counter rails, majolica and formella. Yet no
running bond could keep us together--
you, with your no-childhood face
glaring at me as we swipe yet again.
A lifetime apprecticeship for you, my son,
the only token I had. Not enough for your
mother, not for you, and your eyes
smoke of her. Your hair shrouds the gray of
that eye, and I wish again I'd had a girl.
A girl to sweep and butter after
your mother left to open a
no-star restaurant with linoleum floors
and empty walls where our picture should
fall. A girl to remind me of her, to
fashion and crackle better than you
ever would. My son, with your feminine
hands, keep your chin to mortar and
mastic, and smile a tune to me.