Like coyotes at a kill, the neighbor’s thwacking
ricochets from several places, spiral nails
groaning as the grain gives way.

Looking over my fence, full of slivers, I see him
hammering. The angle and the length
betray something substantial, but that is all.

Pliable, splotchy, more than likely pine, it tilts
under pressure from his glove. The piece he pushes
does not stutter—it stays put with a thud,

the other end pointed at an archer’s angle.
Birds chirp again in his reposition. He bends and lifts
a conjoined twin from the grass by his side.

The cross-section slab is the size of a door.
He props what are now sides with a straddle,
slides his hand from the ruts and smacks them shut,

each nail’s finality echoes deeper at the crux.
He caps each end and the box emerges, impossible
to see in from afar. I think that’s it:

six-sided, unadorned—he drops the hammer, steps inside.
Prostrate now, he fidgets, checks the height, rises
satisfied. The casket lies unsanded, left to cure.