Category: Poetry

Johnnie Gibbson’s Hammer

Who are you?
One who’s house I resurrect
From this unbelievable grime.
Only an optimist would be fool enough.
“The roof is leaking,” you must have said.
Up a ladder you went with carpet and 5 gallon buckets of tar
Many times I know, the roofers covered in that black tar,
With blank stares of disbelief.
Hatchets swinging down on the black gooey bed.
That tar that ended up everywhere.
In the drain in the back yard.
Excavated with a metal rod,
Blows to the concrete and iron pipes,
To the handiwork of the 1940’s,
When this structure came into being.
Repaired with credit at “Home Depot.”
Plastic pipes and tools for scraping.
Floors.
I think I see floors.
A few steps an hour under the
Knee pads covered in the red dust that was a carpet pad.
I see the fog out on the ocean and mindlessly listen to baseball games,
Hoping for extra innings to prolong the company.

“The roof is leaking.”
The ceilings are dripping.
The floor is getting wet.
“More Black Jack and carpet tommorow.”
A great sense of humor you must have had.
The carpet wet to your ankles,
You made your way to the basement,
Holding firm to the bannister on the right,
Then the railing’s end at the bottom,
To the sanctuary in the basement.

Rebuilding cars.
Engines in the downstairs study
One surely under the stairs.
Oil on the concrete – like a birthmark.
The spiders down here I battle with newspapers rolled.
In their stubborn retreats they seem too wise for this simple execution.
These hundreds must go.
They pay not the mortgage but only watch the shadows.
Nuts and bolts in every crevice.
A radiator hose.
A rusted pully.
Endless useless parts.

The sanctuary overflowed to the thickets in the backyard.
Gaskets
Car doors.
Auto glass that grew like clover.
A gas tank like a torpedo.
Huge rusted grates, for rabbits we suppose.

“The roof is leaking.”
Johnnie you were not alone.
A rat holed up behind the tools.
His nest was dry.
He left when you did – I hope.
The mice in the kitchen had free reign too.
They left their trail.
Remedied with toxicity – bleach and trisodium phospate.

A latch on every door.
You were careful in your later years.
The family must have visited often.
You distrusted them no doubt.
I wonder who it was that came
On that day to find you after your last breath.
Perhaps an automotive project on the floor.
Dishes in that nasty sink.
I’m certain you passed away here.
Self-sufficient to the end,
Your truck parked down the street for weeks after.
The tickets came in the mail.

I ‘ve thrown out most of the 50 years.
The old sports cards from the 40’s, a vacuum away under the study,
shed light on earlier days and occupents.
I have kept those as mementos.
Most everthing was hauled off by Marcos, the amazing roofer, to the dump.

Your hammer is still here.
I saved that for the jobs to be done.
Top quality,
It is broken in perfectly.
After days of pulling out 3 inch nails from the walls,
Swearing under my breath, I find it in the basement, in the rubble I know not where.
In a stupor I was.
Time oblivious.
Yet a more perfect weight hammer I have not known.
Wrapped in leather lace.
Solid steel both head and handle.
Weighted like a clock
Weathered the years it tells of a right handed owner.
Slight bend to the left.
It falls with even blows.
With each swing
I shake your hand.

Paul Lyons
June 2004