The Coffin Maker Poem by Farook Ajose

The air was thick in the workshop.
And for once the dust was choking.
His neck hung like a metal rod.
His back had turned a grainy hill.
His baggage slumped both his shoulder.
The mental weight of his daughter.
For her would be his masterpiece,
A coffin unlike another.

Some coffins he adorned in gold.
Marks of the wealthy made in bold.
Some coffins he padded with foam.
Comfort for rotting flesh and bones.
Once he made a coffin of stone.
The gems had held a subtle glow.
But no coffin will be like hers.
A coffin that will chase the cold.

The saw was useless for this job.
The coffin maker was aware.
He fought hard to subdue his sob.
Never did his work cause a tear.
But this was no typical work,
This was the gift he gave his dear.
Others he built without remorse,
But this he builds with love and care.

Off and off, he chiseled the wood.
He mustered all the strength he could.
He had gained blisters from the tools.
And he winced from a splintered wound.
When he was done, he took a look.
This model was ugly and crude.
His daughter was his finest work.
No piece of wood could look as good.

The coffin maker wailed aloud.
As he clutched her small hands tonight.
As a father, she had made him proud.
Now he held her for the last time.
He kissed the corpse and tucked her in.
The coffin was a perfect fit.
He poured the oil then lit a match.
A coffin brighter than the stars.