All those times I was bored
　　out of my mind. Holding the log
　　while he sawed it. Holding
　　the string while he measured, boards,
　　distances between things, or pounded
　　stakes into the ground for rows and rows
　　of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
　　weeded. Or sat in the back
　　of the car, or sat still in boats,
　　sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
　　he drove, steered, paddled. It
　　wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
　　looking hard and up close at the small
　　details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
　　the intricate twill of the seat
　　cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
　　pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
　　of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
　　bristles on the back of his neck.
　　Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
　　I would. The boring rhythm of doing
　　things over and over, carrying
　　the wood, drying
　　the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
　　the animals spend most of their time at,
　　ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
　　shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
　　such things out, and I would look
　　at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
　　the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
　　all the time then, although it more often
　　rained, and more birdsong?
　　I could hardly wait to get
　　the hell out of there to
　　anywhere else. Perhaps though
　　boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
　　groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
　　Now I would know too much.
　　Now I would know.