Miter Box
The kitchen table was his
workshop.
It was not that he was a
woodworker, not a fine
craftsman by trade, but when
I think of my father,
I think of his miter box,
sawdust on linoleum.
An odd thing, not exactly a machine,
more a template, a wooden box
with grooves
to guide the saw, an instrument
that remembers
a right angle is made by two exactly
at 45 degrees.
He was both a smart and a simple
man,
he played no angles but knew
many things.
On weekends, he liked to put
up molding
and chair rail around the
house.
Later he got into picture
frames. Travel posters
and art prints mostly,
cherished images of things
he’d never seen. Hold the saw
steady, make smooth,
evenhanded strokes, keep to
the groove.
© James Finnegan
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