December 26, 2011

Roundhouse

My father takes me to work
on a Saturday
before we get drunk
at the game.
He's the Master Mechanic,
it says so right over his name.
The engines are down,
the men wait around,
my old man stares
into their eyes.
He uses words
I'm forbidden to say,
god only knows
how he tries.
Pounding pistons deafen
the shop, diesel fumes
fill up the floor,
soot edges the fading letters
on his office door.
I get to see
how he made his way,
over steel rails
and all the way home,
how we cannot be the same.