There was a Hungarian snowboarder
who made it to the Olympics,
not by winning,
but by trying more times than anyone else.
I think of this while I’m building a house,
standing alone in the sun,
ignoring the pain,
holding a hammer, a saw, and nails.
I don’t have the slightest clue how to build anything,
but maybe if I just keep moving wood around,
a house eventually will happen.
I pound, I cut, I drill—
like the cancer that is drilling holes in my body.
I don’t have much to show for fifty years,
but if trying hard enough can get you to the Olympics,
then I can build a house
even if it’s the last thing I ever do.