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Poem

The smell of pipe smoke and engine oil
were occasional markers
of an occasional man.

A constant in it’s slightest form he runs
from those in last, and those pieces
of himself he left with them.

Twisting through life with eyes forward
unaware of what lies beneath his tread
What green pastures
he has forsaken
In pursuit of the meadow

The track he traces is not for the faint
Of heart
He hasn’t one.
Not that wife nor daughter could ever grasp. 

If ever the blinders came down and he stopped moving
If he could see what carried him to this line,
Would he weep?

No, his marbled eyes so much like mine
Will never see as I

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