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…
what?
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,
electricity,
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
why
I don’t know him.
Why he never taught me
his shop.
Author T.S. Lowe 