Saturday at the Shop by Lou Gallo

I liked Saturdays because that’s when the old man,
my grandfather, sharpened chisels on the whetstone.
Dad and I would saw plywood sheets into little squares,
for hours we ripped that wood, and the caustic sawdust
laced with formaldehyde blasted our faces.
It’s a smell we could never wash off. And our eyes
sometimes bled. But when the old man stood behind
that stone, pumping the lever with his foot,
and sparks from metal against rock zigzagged
out in a fiery cloud of silent, ephemeral sparks
so primitive time stopped,
we sometimes relaxed and just watched
the show.
Grandpa might look over at us and smile.
It seemed like anything but work.
And he always left early,
that sly rascal.

From: Lou Gallo, 10/28/2013 – Work Literary Magazine

Date: 2013

By: Lou Gallo (19??- )

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