Helping Ken

 

Helping Ken
 

"Hey Ken, need a hand?"
"Nope."
"Can I help anyway?"
"Doubt it."

Old Ken couldn't lift this dock alone,
but he’d manage
with the wile of eighty-odd years
to winch, drag, set it in place.
His movements, stiff.
His knees, weathered.
His grip, when we shake hands,
like the clamp of death.

Job done,
he climbs aboard his
skeletal tractor,
a relic, 'Fifty-One Ford,
for the uphill journey home.
Maintained where it counts,
the naked motor
purrs.

……

First published in Northampton Poetry Review 

Photo by me of Ken’s old tractor from the rear

Ken Laundry of Hawkeye, New York was one of my life’s heroes. I’ve written extensively about him in my Clear Heart blog here.