Forgework

From the title poem

White smoke curls up from the dark
coal as my father's gnarled hands
stoke the fire. He heaps the glowing
coke toward the center, then packs fresh

slurry around the outside. He pumps
the bellows, spurring white incandescence
to coax new life from an old bastard file.
Sturdy tongs in his left hand grasp

the glowing file, his right grips
the hammer. Stroke after stroke, anvil
ringing, he flattens the steel, bending
and drawing. Sparks fly off the blazing

end that soon dulls to grey. Again
he slides the discarded tool into alchemical
flames. He looks as if he'd always stood
at the forge in his battered and dirty leather

apron, coal dust in his hair.