My Father’s World

Dan Meylor
1 min readNov 26, 2020
Composite Image by Dan Meylor

I sift through boxes of found objects

gathered on the workbench in my garage.

Sort through memories of my father

who always stood away,

never opening the door to himself.

I assemble selected objects:

broken, splintered pieces of plywood

found in the trash bins behind Big Lots;

a wall piece with a rabbit’s head

found at a garage sale;

a bent, rusted paint can lid

found behind a furniture store;

broken two by fours, printed photos,

a piece of rubber hose.

I paw through the collection boxes again,

search for pieces that might make legs, arms,

cannot find objects for his eyes.

I arrange, assemble, substitute

one piece for another.

I realize that the assemblage is mute,

does not speak to me at this moment

although I speak to it.

The piece will be finished, given enough

sanding, shaping, sizing,

given more walks along the street,

in deserted parking lots,

given more searching.

My assemblage will rise to hang on a wall.

My father’s world will not.

His stories are lost because he never told them.

The world of him I see is a world

I arrange.