Work
I could tell they were father and son,
the air between them slack, as though
they hardly noticed one another.
The father sanded the gunwales,
the boy coiled the lines.
And I admired them there, each to his task
in the quiet of the long familiar.
The sawdust coated the father's arms
like dusk coats grass in a field.
The boy worked next on the oarlocks
polishing the brass until it gleamed,
as though he could harness the sun.
Who cares what they were thinking,
lucky in their lives
that the spin of the genetic wheel
slowed twice to a stop
and landed each of them here.
the air between them slack, as though
they hardly noticed one another.
The father sanded the gunwales,
the boy coiled the lines.
And I admired them there, each to his task
in the quiet of the long familiar.
The sawdust coated the father's arms
like dusk coats grass in a field.
The boy worked next on the oarlocks
polishing the brass until it gleamed,
as though he could harness the sun.
Who cares what they were thinking,
lucky in their lives
that the spin of the genetic wheel
slowed twice to a stop
and landed each of them here.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2017 by Sally Bliumis-Dunn, "Work," from Echolocation, (Plume Editions, 2017). Poem reprinted by permission of Sally Bliumis-Dunn and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.