Shop Talk
I remember it well– those times that we spent–
My grandpa and I, as the afternoons went.
The shop smelled like diesel and oil and fuel.
He had careful labels for every tool.
The floor was swept clean with incredible care.
We each of us had our own oil smeared chair.
He’d get under the hood of a sweet classic beauty.
For him it was love– never a moment of duty.
“Hey Em hand me that wrench over there. We need that for a while.”
If I didn’t know which one, he’d let me guess and then smile.
“That’s right. You got it. You’re learning a lot.
Pretty soon you’ll be fixing these cars that we’ve got.”
I smiled. I loved it– working in there with him.
Those engines, those motors. Those tires and rims.
I fell in love with the garage, because that’s where Grandpa would be.
And anywhere he was, was the best place to me.
I helped change the oil and loved getting it on my hands.
Gram would see my black hands and say “Goodness! My lands!”
“George what were you doing? This girl is filthy and black!”
Grandpa would smile, and I’d smile back.
“We were just working together out there in the shop.This girl’s a big help. Her hands and clothes will wash up.”
I knew I was off the hook when Pap vouched for me.
Gram would eye me and scrub me so hard I thought that I’d bleed.
I’d go to bed clean, dreaming of tomorrow, for then,
I’d be out in the shop with Pap getting dirty again. â¤ï¸
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Beautiful poem of fond memories with your Pap.
🙂 <3