My Father’s Workshop

This is my father’s workshop,
not the thing of magazine spreads
or television, this is a place of chaos
and broken things,
full of fragments and tools
that were often more historic than useful.

It has been many years since anything
was built here.
This place stayed the same as his mind too
became a place of fragments and chaos,
a mirror, if you will, of the madness
of inner demons, alcohol of cigarette smoke.

And now it is time to dismantle the chaos,
to clear away the smoke and the broken things.
It is hard to remember some days,
but great things were made here,
not least of all the lessons learned,
good and bad, the lessons

that will serve you well as you sort through the flotsam
spread over the hand built workbench, and decide
what is trash, what is treasure,
and what is worth
restoring.

About this poem.

That actually is a picture of my dad’s workshop. We had to clear it out months ago when we sold my parents’ home to continue his care. I stumbled on the picture this morning, and it got me thinking about all the things we have to sort out after a loss, whatever that loss might be. And from that thinking… this poem.

Tom