“KNOW YOUR MESS”… 1983 (Mark's tribute to his dad)

My father's workshop, a busy space, but so many tools out of place. 

Tools smeared by oil, others by grease, some should be labeled 'rest in peace'.

Hammers hang longing to drive the spikes, he leaves us room for broken bikes.

A new table saw, the smoothest cut, sits near paint many years closed shut.

Spare belts and tires for the car, he's now prepared to go very far.

Can of brake fluid for his stops drips off the shelf … many silent drops.

Slew of tiny screws, stack of wood, things he might use, things he never would.

My mother, his love, can't understand all of these things without a plan.

She brings ‘it’ up and he says “yes”, but never has time to plan the mess.

Taking blades off the mower my father helps me ...I move over.

He asks for a wrench, I hear of cost, he always knows when they are lost.

Then he asks me for the pliers, but I last saw them by the tires.

He gets up and looks for the pair, but they have vanished into thin air.

Looking around he knows where they are, he has to look some, none too far.

It takes a man years to know his mess, were all his tools lie, more or less.

My father’s work shop, lots of space, and every tool, he knows it's place.