Looking out of place,
next to the well-kept barn,
ancient,
the roof sagging,
a third world hut,
home to various creatures,
working the vise,
welding repairing machinery,
movement seen and heard,
in dark corners behind boxes of parts,
greasy and oil-stained,
prayed there were no skunks,
whenever Dad needed tools from the shop.
I hated that place with a passion
yet now,
how I long to spend a few moments with Poppa’s tools,
and greasy boxes of parts,
in Dad’s old shop.
Douglas Polk is a writer of poetry from central Nebraska. Feeling persecuted most of his life he has published three books of poetry; In My Defense, The Defense Rests, and On Appeal. He lives with his wife and two boys and two dogs on the plains of Nebraska.
Douglas Polk is a writer of poetry from central Nebraska. Feeling persecuted most of his life he has published three books of poetry; In My Defense, The Defense Rests, and On Appeal. He lives with his wife and two boys and two dogs on the plains of Nebraska.
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