He's as feminine as a lumberjack, and he's okay with that.
Sometimes, he imagines the people he hates
to be the pieces of wood he's splitting.
He has nothing but the wood, so hating fills the time.

Sweat pours down his cleft chin onto the wood beneath him.
He picks up a different piece, this one is his supervisor.
He pulled his axe above his head, feeling its massive weight
he let it all drop down onto the wood below.
The two met, and there was a sharp deafening crack.
His supervisor became two.
Tiny splinters of the wood made their way up, striking his face and neck,
for years those he loathed gave one last punch.

The supervisor approached him,
His childlike voice boomed through the forest.
He had a face that was ruggedly boyish
noticeably aged and cracked from the sun.
“More wood.”
The voice reminded him of Morgan Freeman,
a man he did not hate.