Lynn Cohen Poems
I Waited For My Granddad
I waited for my granddad to walk home from the bus stop.
It was very dark out, but I had my Girl Scout jackknife in my pocket.
He worked in a machine shop somewhere in South Boston.
His hands were so calloused from checking for stray burrs,
he had no feeling in his fingertips.
And he took my hand and told me how to oil my knife and keep it sharp.
My granddad waited for me to walk out in the garden after doing supper dishes.
The whippoorwills had started and it was getting cool out.
He showed me marigolds planted to keep the bugs away and extra lettuce, for the ...
My Uncle's Hands
My uncle talked to wood with his bare hands.
His rough and calloused fingertips
coaxed the grain to say its name:
bird's eye maple, southern yellow pine.
He savored the purchase of fine woods
the way a richer man buys a piece of art:
for his collection. To have. To touch.