The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
A Father's Touch

I have a need
to rectify my brokenness,
to repair the rusted-on
rivet of my stubbornness.

Wrench in hand, I wrestle
to torque this twisted corrosion
but despite my wretched grunts
the rivet stays unmoved.

But after so earnest an exhaustion
I look away from my failure
Look up, look around for 
anyone to help.

At first, you said you did not see
my brokenness, my failure,
you stood helpless but attentive
listening as I explained my dilemma.

Then, you began to see, and
reaching down, grasped with me
the stainless tool within my hand
but the rivet did not give.

With a smile, your strong arm
lifted my hand, letting go of my
means to move the unmovable,
have I not now lost all hope?

But from your back pocket,
you drew forth a fiery torch,
which now ignited, hissed 
with a heat I have never seen.

You hand it to me?  I could not
wield even a wrench, how shall
I use this?  But I took it,
lest it should drop away.

I point the searing blue cone
upon the unmovable rivet,
but nothing happens, accept
my hands begin to burn.

Your cold, big hand then gently
guides me to move the flame closer
and aim its wicked point into the 
very core of the bolt.

What is this?  It glows cherry red,
transformed, becoming ever whiter,
my hand burns, I must pull away,
but your hand protects me from this.

I cannot bear it, even my face
flushes beneath the pain, yet
your hand remains coolly
supporting my weakening grasp.

The bolt now sputters,
smoke and ash, cinders of 
molten metal, it gives its
very substance away.

But nothing will be left!
We must stop, go back,
rebuild the unmovable
or else what shall we call fixed?

But it is too late, and the
bolt drips away sputtering in
the pool of tears beneath...
then...the broken part falls free.

The flame is gone, the heat
a distant memory, 
examining my hands, my face, 
I see no scars, and there before me
lay the pieces to be mended
so simple a puzzle, how did I not
see it, why did I make it so hard,
why fear and pain when this joy
I find within myself was always
there, riveted into hiding so that
I could revel in my inabilities.

But there you are, smiling, beaming,
your joy is mine.  You did this for me -
no, you say, I did this for you.
Somehow we say the same thing,
and I am so proud we did this together.
For I am your son, and you my father;
what can stand in our way?  
What, in my way, so long as you stand 
with me?
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©2007 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.