Tiresmith Poem by Glen Kappy
Tiresmith
The hissing blasts—
machine gun spurts—
the clank of metal banging metal—
the shouting to be heard—
the dimness and the need
to pick a path around tires—
the grime which made it hard
to find a place to lean or sit.
But him—his speed, his skill—
which likely made it cost so little—
but most of all was this—
his manners and his gentleness.
Gentleness in that harsh environment? What a pleasant experience. You should give him a copy of this poem...
You read me perfectly, Laurie, and see why I was touched. This actually happened years ago- that business is no more. This is a poem that I kept to work on and just reworked this morning. Appreciate you. -Glen
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 5:01:41 AM # 1.0.0.1119
I have been in these places so many times. Those dim lit places where a poet seems an oddity amid the noise and decades old grease. I should like to think that I have mastered the ability to connect with these types.Setting an example by insisting on a hand shake without them feeling the need to grab a rag and cleaning their palm first. A beautiful gesture in such a hard environment. Your writing was exactly the right measure of respect, observation and appreciation for their speed and skill, keeping the price down and all with manners and kindness that seem alien in such a harsh environment and yet somehow seem even more fantastic because of it! Good on you G.K. you are a true observer and master at the art of being and seeing.
Wow, Edmund! I feel humbled by your comments. Thank you. This was a poem I started a long while ago, and then it sat. I saw it again recently and felt nudged to enter into it again. I guess it was the right time because I'm feeling that it's finally done. -Glen