Anna Egan Smucker
Who He Was
Too often, as a worker at the foundry pounded
the iron out of a mold, a sliver would arc
and lodge in one of his unprotected eyes.
Unable to afford a doctor,
the man would arrive in the evening,
cap in hand, at my grandfather’s kitchen door.
Although my grandad was his foreman, he was still
one of them. He’d paid his dues―lost his ring finger
in the foundry to a press still in use.
Carrying a chair out from the kitchen, he’d place
it in a spot of waning sunlight, ask the man
to please sit, and using a toothpick, he’d gently, gently,
roll the man’s eyelid back,
and with his clean handkerchief
he’d flick that speck out.
Cradling an eye cup filled with warm water,
he’d tilt the man’s head back, slowly pouring
the water to clean and soothe that bloodshot eye.
If, when the man was ready to leave,
he began to reach into his pocket,
Grandad would shake his head and touch his arm.
The man, shy, uncertain,
would tip his cap—
perhaps grateful
that my grandad
was who he was.