Papa's Hands

"Papa! Suppers on. Come in now."
though her voice was more clarinet
it carried like the bass drum
in a bad parade
comin down the gravel drive


and Papa would come in
always has, always will
it was the way

hearing the words, and
the screen door slam
he gave the wrench one final turn
before grunting without thought
"i'll be there"

but no one heard him
other than his lame cow
broken tractor
and three legged barn cat

still
he said it
as he had for a thousand years

his hands of blood and grease
were giant clams rotting
on forgotten beaches and
he paused to look at them

turned them

pushed one onto a nail
tongue wagging a  sleeping beam

nothing

he back handed the lazy beam
while the cat blinked
in wonderment
from the bale of dusty hay

nothing

he studied the great nothing
and silently wondered
when it all had taken place

had he never been a child?
had his hands always been
just a tools extension?
his face, a post Halloween pumpkin
snickered a smile
but sometimes
A smile, isn't a smile at all

The screen door creaked
as if with rheumatism
"Papa! did you hear me? suppers on!"
the bass turned into tuba

he heard her, every day
for a thousand years
and the door slammed
in perfect rhythm
to her "landsakes!"
and shaking head

walking to the window
painted heavy in dust,
he thought to wipe it clean
but clearer vision
can be bitter medicine, and
he gazed appropriately
through the history it preached

thirty yards away
under the guardian oak
rested the frozen titanic
of a captain's dream

his first new tractor-
unsinkable, the salesman had said
when the papers were scratched

but there'd been five since
and six looked as sure
as the crow's caw
from the broken gutter


he wondered how it got there
why it stayed there
a constant reminder

-of her last day
a thousand years ago
when her piston struck the iceberg
and listed to starboard
but couldn't remember

if a picture paints a thousand words
rust paints but one

"Papa!!! I swear, I'm not agonna call you again. You hear me Papa? The potatas gonna be cold!"
Slam

his eyes lowered as he smiled
but a smile isn't always a smile

the cow bellered mama's echo
which echoed a thousand church bells
echoing a thousand funerals
in a thousand town

shufflin to the stricken cow
he felt a deep burning urge
to punch the cow
and rattle her ribs good
but instead
stroked her neck as
the cat hopped over
to brush his ratty overalls

drawing back his foot to kick her away
he instead reached down
and scritched her head
with his work swollen fingers
as tenderly as a princess
strokes a flower

looking about the barn
as a u-boat captain
searches for targets
he saw only his life
in rusty nails and time-split wood

pulling the worn hanky from
his dusty overalls
he wiped his face and
turned toward the door

"comin Mama"
he sniffed and smiled

and sometimes a smile
really is a smile
and sometimes a thousand years
passes far too quickly