His little cave of an office was made darker
by oak paneling from the Seventies, flickering
fluorescent lights framed in water damaged
ceiling panels and battleship gray carpeting.
Papers, catalogues, manuals sat on top of
the refrigerator, shelves, cabinets, and in piles
on hit beat up old brown desk. A tired man,
he sighs deeply when he looks around his place.
And people wonder why I don’t take vacations,
is what he says as I stare at a dusty stuffed marlin.
When I tell him about how my father passed away
just a few years ago, he becomes silent and must’ve
wondered if it really mattered if his body shop was
open next week or if he was in the Florida Keys.