Dad's old workbench, in his shop. . . .
    Holds lots of memories across its top.

There are holes where the drill went a little too far,
    And stains where he spilled some roofing tar.

The old vice, rusting, near one end.
    It seems to know it's lost a friend.

It's mid-section, worn from jobs.
    Here and there a few paint dobs.

He made that bench, himself, you know,
    With scraps he had, so long ago.

And the two of them would work together:
    All times of year - all kinds of weather.

The bench's job, you understand,
    Was to give my dad a helping-hand.

For, one could not work without the other.
    That bench was almost like a brother.

And, through the years, as each grew older,
    Their friendship grew, but ne'r grew colder.

For both, it seems, began to see
    How fleeting life turns out to be.

And, so, Dad found that bench more dear,
    by its side in his later years.

Now Dad's life has reached its end,
    And the bench is longing for a friend.

Please pass it on. Don't tear it apart.
    But find someone else with a craftsman's heart.