Cutting a Finger at the Hardware Store

Cutting a Finger at the Hardware Store

Fluorescent cans cling to rafters lighting
bird nests nestled into rusted corners,
stacks of white fir pine oak spruce and cedar,
a muffled swirling sawdust galaxy.
I lay some two-by-twos across the smooth
concrete floors to check each beam for warping
when I spot the staple in the end grain,
a gnarled knot twice twisted on itself.
A careful pull might have the leverage to
rip the hindering metal free—the staple
shears in half and sticks into my finger,
its swiftly sharpened end parting the flesh.
The blood drips into beads where granular
sawdust doesn't soak it into putty,
drops are leeched by thirsty fresh cut timber,
the rest I tuck inside a wrinkled hem
where the cotton fibers join with blood-caked
fingers until, at home, I yank the spike
free with pliers and watch whisps of scarlet
dissolve like bad dreams down the sink drain.