Metal Shop

He left behind
a metal shop,
this man who nature calls
my father.
All lasers,
all tech,
all connected via motherboards
and towers full
of chips.

And I can’t help but think,
this was his.
This was his world,
where he dreamed,
where he created…

Why do I know so little?

If someone were
to hand me
his favorite tool,
I wouldn’t know
it was his.
His computer?
I don’t know.
His favorite place to sit?
Is there such a thing?

Is this really
my Dad?

This antique car,
this plane he made by hand.
A pile of steel shavings,
outbuildings sheltering
years of plates,
wires, tires,
flight contraptions,
time machines–

I know none of it.

But he’s left it behind,
gone to another country.
He said I could stay here,
among the empty, but not hollow
world he left behind.

Too far for me
to ask

I don’t know him.

Why he never taught me
his shop.

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