I wrote this after my dad died

Sawdust

A musky aroma of oak.
The sweet smell of cherry.
The sour tinge of pine.
I remember the first time I used this saw.

The odor of burning wood
mixed with old oil and metal.
I can still smell old cigarettes.
I remember the first oak I cut.

Dire Straits, “The Sultans of Swing,”
Rocking between the screams of the board.
My push-sticks guide the victim.
I remember the first time I tracked this mess through the house.

I run my fingers along the edge.
I measure twice from end to end.
I weigh the board with my hands.


I look at my hands
I see the cuts on my hands.Instantly I miss my father.