Would He Weep

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