Derby Days

Derby Days

Sanding, standing,

cheap wool checking

the cold concrete floor.

Dim and dying

Edison bulb

suspended with string.

Bygone hands, wrung rough

with chips and scars,

lead the pine block

across screeching belts,

spun hard

by a roaring motor.

Soft ears stung

by mechanical cacophony -

given giant muffs.

The only pair,

and matching

oblong goggles.

Wooden flakes spray

the smell of earthly bones

in a splintered flurry,

as jagged corners,

sterile symmetry,

take on new life.

Tender hands,

unblemished,

with room for wounds,

cannot hope to form

a fish on wheels from

a dried plant piece.

I smile, grateful.

He smiles back,

grateful also.

• A.T. Buesching