Jerry

by Theresa C. Newbill ©


He holds tools with a light secure grip,
the steel worker from Portland, Oregon.
Even through sturdy work gloves, I
can feel the cautiousness of his heart as
he watches for obstacles. There's a
repetition to his maneuver of weld, rivet,
and bolt, the harsh sound of steel against
intimidation.

He is a prisoner of the moon, caught between
two lifetimes of devotion, the grinding of
water, the gasping of wind. The one who
measures solitude to the hour while playing
acoustic guitar to the music of Slayer and Black
Sabbath. He has scraped the scales of beauty and
the experience shows in the warmth of his smile.
I look at him and I see his face inside my own.

Is it possible to see the familiar for the first
time?