The Wood Shop
I went inside my dad's dusty wood shop where
he worked. I saw crystal silk strands with dried
up insects hanging upside down adorning every
corner. Warp pine boards were leaning against a work
bench waited patiently.
A rusty table-saw seem to look at me
admonishingly. Cockroaches scurry around
like dry leaves, while a field mouse with
black glass-like eyes dashed away disappearing
under a cabinet.
On a dusty wooden table with rusty nails and
screws, I see an unfinished pine step stool.
A crude drawing on yellow parched paper laid
next to a half finished project titled,
'For my granson'.
Reading the misspelled word though watering
stinging eyes, I remembered the many times I
failed to heed his requests to join him in his shop.
I found a broom and began to sweep my guilt
away. I called my son to help, "I'm busy" Was
his reply.
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