There he sat,
Stooped double over an old umbrella,
Tinkering over a loose joint,
Mouth compressed in concentration,
Deft fingers wielding the tools of his trade,
A master of his craft,
Clad in tattered shirt and faded shorts,
Dusty, calloused feet speaking louder
About his weathered slippers;
He scratches his matted hair
And pauses to change tools…
He speaks to pass the time away,
Telling about his wife, their children,
The joy they bring to him,
His hopes for them, his dreams,
While his hands and fingers continue
Dancing the threads and needles,
The pliers and the wires…
A few minutes more, and he straightens,
Hands over the healed parasol,
In exchange for the paltry sum,
And heads away
Whistling in absent contentment,
Knowing he has earned his family
Another night’s dinner.
physics and poetry 