Best Fatherold Poems
The Old Hand Saw
...for Ted Kooser
It belonged to my dad.
More antique than useful it lay
in my tool box begging to be used.
Soaped and sharpened so many times
its blade was dull and lifeless.
I took it with me everywhere I went
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up. The skilsaw
superseded; a cold, efficient
implement that did as it was told
with ne'er a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I'd nicked and cut until I bled
when choosing my old friend;
museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away.
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.