Tiresmith - Poem by Glen Kappy

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.

Poems by Glen Kappy

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