Little Poem for a Big Man

Dad, Workin’

Bent down, bent-over shoulders

hooked back

raising up, lugging in, heaving out

still

Broke

Those busted up fingers all swelled

From the ink and the roots

and wire and cutters

sand paper really does sound like hands

on a tired old chest from North Carolina

that you rub down

some life you round out

like yours

getting smoother now

add milk paint

make a few bucks