The Builder of Better Angel Dance Floors

I got word yesterday that the poem of the title above had gotten nominated for a Pushcart by the Concho River Review. I hold that journal and its editor in special esteem, so to be nominated by them is a great nod. Many thanks to Mark Jackson and Jerry Bradley.

The poem itself came about when a student at DMC got miffed at me when I rebuffed a compliment about my poetry. He asked, “Why do you always do that? “The poem is attempt to answer. The man who actually told me how good a welder my father was known to be was a man name Dean Gribnaugh, and he waited for my father to step away . I’m sure that’s not how his name was spelt. It happen in the Moose club in Maynard New York, or at least that’s my recollection. My father did have co workers with the names I used in the poem though. Here it is. Hope you enjoy.

The Builder of Better Angel Dance Floors

Home from college, one summer weekend
with not much to do, I went to a local bar
with my dad. When he left his stool to piss,
Goo Goo, Crazy Joe, and Lumpy, his co-workers
and union brothers, sidled over to educate me.
“Sport, your old man would kill us if he knew
we told you this, but you should know,
your father is the best damn welder in the local.
They say Al Berecka could weld the heads
of two pins together.” They all shook their heads
in agreement and skedaddled back to their stools
once the men’s room door swung open.
As he reclaimed his seat my dad asked,
“What was that about?” “Ah, nothing,”
I said as the other men nodded knowingly,
and I tried to hide any hint of admiration.
Just as someone asked, “So who’s buying
the next round?” and the bar settled back
to its proper business—washing down pride.