The Sander

The man power sands, his sky-blue
shirt tucked half-in
his denimed hips swinging
in counterpoint to the circular
motion of the machine
He tilts a shoulder
and moves steady down the line
as dry paint billows
white above his head
He is form
in perfect harmony
with function
such as lion glides through savanna
or dove settles upon a branch
Do I dare claim
the right of the sander
that form and function here
also coincide
as shoulder tilted
pen scratching
hand curved toward impossible
I move word by word
down the line?