Broken Bolts  


My Dad’s memorial service, began with a guy in
a kilt marching in, playing a bagpipe. The tall man

in tartan kilt turned all eyes. The shrill blast he blew 
drew all ears. The stirring notes lifted the dark pall 

from relatives and friends. All our testimonials to a 
life well lived followed as but grace notes to the piping, 

portentous strains. I recounted my memories, a few 
telling details. (Superlatives are worthless for the dead). 

I told how I found in Dad’s garage workshop a jar of
bolts labeled “OK” and another tagged “Broken.” A

child of the Depression, Dad saved everything of value, 
even of questionable value. Life on a poor Texas farm, 

as the youngest of ten kids, did not break him like the 
bolts, but it scarred him. Those labels showed his scars.  

The piercing wail exclaimed those scars to all who listened.





Shelter Volunteer   


The man opposite began to tremble,
a human volcano erupting out of 

stained jeans and thrift shop shirt.
I yelled for help, but they told me,

wait. The seismic waves through 
his frame will soon fetch up on the

floor and walls. Do not call 911. We
have seen this many times. He just

forgot his pills today. What else can
we say, but stay your helping hands?

This will pass. Fear not his biting off 
his tongue. He has no teeth to even 

chew. He gums his food into nutrition.
Stuff like this happens here. The volcano

within him will rein in its wrath within
the hour. We are vulcanologists at this 

shelter. We know quakes. Learn to heed 
the temblors that shake men to the floor. 

For now, make a pillow of your sweater.