because he asked
for help
i remember
unafraid
admitting
he was out of
his element
“my dad fixes
these things”
oil darkened, rough
hands placing
grimy
paystubs
on clean xerox
machine glass
looking up from
the machine
he tells me
“i fix rigs”
i gave him
this poem
a tribute to
skilled hands
and specialized
knowledge
instead of the
usual
‘too-much-information’
eye-roll
Jonas Lamb 