Wood and Water

Sawdust and rusted hammer,
anvil and adamant nail,
long hours and an empty wallet,

these are the things my father owned.

Heartbreaks and mid-day hunger,
dog days and afternoon losses,
unshut eyes and late-night balms,

these are the things my father knew.

This is what I remember:
the steam of coffee in the mornings,
how he’d hunch over
blue in the face with laughter
over some perennial nonsense,
brown wood hands clamped over
his mouth,
I suspect to silence the breaking.

What’s left is this:
drunken mourners puffing smoke,
dealing cards, mad dogs yelping,
clamor of passing vehicles.
Heavy rain beats against the side street,
a lull over the breaking.

Paulo Lorenzo L. Garcia is a Literature and Oral Communication teacher. He is currently pursuing his MA-Creative Writing at the University of Santo Tomas. A number of his poems have appeared in “The Literary Yard.” He hopes to publish a poetry collection in the future.

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