This poem first appeared in the August 2025 issue of Moss Piglet.
Long retired, he still dressed
like I remember my grandpa
coming home sooty
from the Union Pacific welding shop.
Unlike my grandpa,
he taught me things, practical
things necessary for the kind
of work that helps you sleep
accomplished and whole.
Seeing me struggle
to buck the boxelder
behind our house
with more smoke than sawdust,
he led me through a maze
of rusted snowblowers and mowers
in permanent states of disassembly.
From a can on the back wall
he gifted me a skinny round file
and said a guy should be able
to sharpen his own chainsaw.
Neighbors say they lost a daughter
when she was young,
but no one really knows
what griefs remain behind
the kind smile
and the blinds that never open.
The cluttered garage was as far
as he'd take me.
Scott McConnaha 