Work Boots (A Poem in Honour of My Father)

Cover Photo

On October 3rd 2015, my father, Kenneth Martin Edgar, went home to be with the Lord at the age of 64. This is a poem I wrote a few days later in honour of him.


 

Work boots
Dusty, rusty, well-worn
There, sitting on the porch
Silent, but only after a hard day’s work
Every scuff a story
Story of a man providing

Work clothes
Or, in a sense, everyday clothes
Can you see him in anything else?
You can, but only because it looks weird
Navy blue, leather belt
Custom buckle about his waist

Scabs
Hands that went to war each day
Battle scars from the fight
No band-aids, ever
Wrenches and ratchets
The clinking sound is really a love song

Telephone
Does that thing ever shut up?
No, not really
Ring, ring, “Big Hook Towing”
No problem, help is on the way
Doesn’t matter that it’s 3am

Tow trucks
Even now, they’re still cool
Diesel rumble, equipment banging
A rescue vehicle of sorts
Makes sense actually
Superheroes don’t drive just anything

Cash
Why your shirt pocket?
I always thought it would fall out
Never did
At least, not that I know of
You’d never admit it anyway

Pills
Hard to swallow
Not for you I mean
For us
Made the pain tolerable
Not that you complained

Bed
Ahhh, finally!
The dented mattress shaped like you
A cozy nook to rest in
Well deserved
Turn on the game. What’s the score?

Hospital
Only because you had to
Boring as heck
Still with the corny jokes
Swelling, painful IV
Still, who’s complaining?

The Day
How’d it happen so fast?
Family there
Eyes open, one last time
We love you
Not the end

Home
Running, jumping, throwing
Like you’re young again
Precious reunions
Happy tears
With Christ

Sequel
This one’s not done yet
We’ll honour you
And not forget
Save a place
Be there soon

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