Trial of the Oblique Triangle: Building Permit #78

No mail-order kit—from fig leaves and wire,

a hunchbacked assembly of seven-fold wings.

Yes, we knew the blue-toed skink

would bite its lover’s digits off,

so in captivity we supervised,

and twice repaired the water pump

to flow our solid mile of trench.

But let the record show I never

swung that pickaxe without gloves:

the discipline of guilt demands precision.

Left over? Not one screw. At tea,

she stroked the neck feathers, impressed.

She served us tarts and handed us the pliers.

So much for tools. So much for cleverness.