Helping Ken
"Need a hand?"
"Nope."
"Can I help anyway?"
"Doubt it."
(Which means yes.)
Old Ken couldn't lift this dock alone,
but he would manage
with the wile of eighty-odd years
to winch, drag, set it in place.
His movements, stiff.
His knees, weathered.
His grip, when we shake hands,
like the clamp of death.
Job done,
he climbs aboard his
skeletal tractor,
a relic, 'Fifty-One Ford,
for the uphill journey home.
Maintained where it counts,
the naked motor
purrs.
I've written extensively about Ken Laundry, starting here:
Ken Laundry: The Ice Saw, The Double-Bladed Ax
and ending here:
Another Death in the Family.
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