My dad made the
boilers
For warships and
liners,
Huge prisons of steel
For the scolding hot
steam.
There was pride in
each rivet
Every pattern
completed,
When he told me his
yarns
I could see his eyes
gleam.
Some days he would
take me
To stand at the dock
head,
He knew all the names
And the places they'd
been.
I imagined us sailing
The ships he was part
of,
But asbestos killed
him
And ended the dream.
Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2012.
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