Craftsman

The son liked to look over,
and observe the movements
of his father
Behind every one,
so effortless, a purpose
Calloused hands gliding
from tool to worn tool,
torch to file to mandrel,
without so much as a glance
Occasionally muttering
to himself or no one
Possibly unaware,
but his lips moved,
and sometimes he whistled
along with the tunes
He had built his life
as a precisionist,
a master craftsman
The son hoped
that someday far off
he could do anything
with such skill