Dad was a body and fender mechanic
the best in town I was told
when all I remember was the ultimate
punishment to trudge out to the garage
to sand cars under Dad’s perfection
as he rubbed his hand over our attempts
and shook his head meaning, “Do it better.”
Finally, it was good enough —
the sanding and the punishment,
and I ran free.
Now the garage stays dark and silent;
I wonder if Dad’s hand-and-mind connection
would re-fire similar synapses
if I asked him to check my sanding.
About the Poet
Diane Webster grew up in Eastern Oregon before she moved to Colorado. She enjoys drives in the mountains and takes amateur photographs. Writing poetry provides a creative outlet exciting in images and phrases Diane thrives in. Her work has appeared in “Old Red Kimono,” “North Dakota Quarterly,” “Talking River Review,” and other literary magazines.