Demo

Plastic sheeting across the door,

a guy inside with a saw gone quiet,

watching me stop on the sidewalk

for no reason I could give him.

Pale shavings against the baseboard.

Yellow extension cord coiled in the corner.

The smell.

My father's garage—

the workbench with one short leg,

the coffee can full of bent nails

he wouldn't throw out,

the way he'd stand with his back to me

fitting a piece of wood into something

that wasn't going to fit.

I must have stood there a full minute.

The guy through the plastic

didn't look away, didn't ask.

I moved on before he could.

I don't know what he was building.

I don't know what my father was, either,

most of the time.