Construction

I worked with two Irishmen.

One had no hair on his knuckles from smoking cigarettes to the filter.

The other was my boss.

They had quick conversations.

The man with bald fingers always started them.

My boss would rather work in silence.

-You know Johnny Doyle?

-From the tunnels?

-No. He hangs out at the barracks.

-Yeah, I know him.

-Dead. 66 or 67. Three days before they found him.

My boss sipped his coffee and yelled,

Hot liquid still in his throat

-Bang the nails. Don’t fucking tap them!

It's hard to go from eavesdropping

To the center of a sentence,

Especially one that has been hurled at you

In the manner my boss's words whipped.

So, naturally,

I put the hammer through the wall after his suggestion,

But later learned to listen with my ears

Instead of my eyes.