He died because he wanted to dance.
Had a girlfriend named Mary, love of second chances;
(Gran left him for a banker years ago). They loved
square dancing, and he had those Dougherty knees,
perhaps from kneeling on the job for all those years.
He built houses, duplexes, furniture, dollhouse tiers.
A tiny doll cabinet, which now holds books. My heart.
He went in for a little tweak, with the promise of new start,
no more pain; came out different. Less. Shrinking. Weak.
I think of him, when I listen to my own knees creak,
when I smell the scent of wood and think of good men who
just want to cut a rug, hold a hand, shape something new.
At dVerse Poetics today, Kim asks us to write about a craftsman or artisan,
with an added challenge. Come play!