what really matters

he tells me,

as we talk on the stoop,

as old

people often

do,

that he worked at the factory

for 41 years.

in the same shop.

most are dead he says,

referring

to friends,

and neighbors that he

worked with.

he shows me his

hands.

pointing at the scars,

the black

oil

still in the crevices.

i miss it he says.

my job was everything.

everything.

then his wife

comes

out the door, with drinks

and sandwiches.

she smiles.

and says. he's lying, he

won't tell you

that his life

was all about me.

and he laughs, knowing

that it's true.