Poem: An Imperfect Cure

An Imperfect Cure

Oil can on the shelf.
Tools on the wall.
A pile of dirty manuals off to the side.

Broken things. Old things
to keep running
because you are determined
not to toss them.

At a certain point, the truth becomes hard.
There are no parts left
and so, you make your own,

an imperfect cure,
but a cure none the less.

About this poem

My grandfather was a farmer in Surry County, Virginia. A product of the depression, he didn’t let many things go. He had some tractors that even 40 years ago belonged in an museum. He kept them running with ingenuity and determination. I am sure some of his repairs were strange and odd, not at all factory- authorized, But they ran.

We are all kind of like that as we age. Physically and emotionally, we break and we patch and sometimes the results are imperfect.

But we run on.

Tom

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s