Father's Day 1956
Piles of scrap wood lay neatly
by the grey cinder brick wall.
The pungent scent of fresh
cut pine for a chest of drawers
hangs in the air.
With my miniature tools
I mimic my father as he
sands, planes and chisels
with short calloused fingers.
More gestures than words
he guides my project, a
wooden boat, rows of finishing
nails joined with string make
a railing.
It floats in the bath tub that
night as mom washes the
saw dust from my hair.
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