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Tinkerer's Hands
I knew an old man, with tinkerers’ hands
calloused, but nimble and sure.
A kind gentle soul, a heart made of gold,
goodness I’ll see nevermore.
With a smile on his face, a pipe clenched in place
banjo at rest on his knee,
he played with a flare, smoke filling the air,
one or two songs, maybe three.
I remember the day, he taught me to play
a tune on an old worn guitar.
I still hear the words, “Bye Bye Blackbird”,
a melody dredged from afar.
I recall as a boy, a time he made toys
my favorite, a toy soldiers’ fort.
Contented we played, with things he had made,
yet nary a clue we were poor.
We’d always depend, his fingers could mend
most anything broken or torn.
Hunched at his bench, with hammer or wrench
his flannel shirt, tattered and worn.
One day he grew old, this aged gentle soul
wealthy with knowledge and lore.
I’d so much to learn, observe and discern
from this man I’d grown to adore.
I miss the old man with tinkerers’ hands
reflecting I pause and feel sad.
I knew at the end, he’d become my best friend,
teacher and hero, my dad.
