His old tool shop smelled
of machine oil, sawdust,
and men who couldn’t
care less how they smelled.
There, on Saturday
afternoons, the men
turned up tall bottles,
leaned against work benches,
lathes, drills, or vises;
they fooled with hammers,
planes, and screwdrivers
while they talked away
the time, occasionally
erupting with one
of those mighty beer
belches that impressed
the belt-high grandson
just hanging around,
knowing eventually
he’d be offered one
short sip, then laughed at
for the face he’d make.
Now older than all
of those men, I’ve done
my duty by beer,
cycled a river
of that stuff through me,
acted the fool, puked
from the windows of fast-
moving cars, earned my
stripes in the army
of flaming assholes.
Now in the kitchen,
about to serve dinner,
I’m remembering,
and I lift my mug.
My grown-up daughters
raise their stemmed glasses.
We laugh, though we don’t
know exactly why.
— David Huddle
This article appears in Jun 9-15, 2004.
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