Grinding Wheel

Where the buttress of concrete Stands firmly, supporting the weight Of 10,000 northbound car trips daily, A little house endured for many years.

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Before the freeway came, there were

Small houses, in neat, squared off rows,

On San Benito Street. Tiny front yards and

Vegetable gardens in the back, filled

The lands south of Ventura Avenue.

Where the buttress of concrete

Stands firmly, supporting the weight

Of 10,000 northbound car trips daily,

A little house endured for many years.

Standing taller than it’s footprint.

White clapboard wood, overlapping

To the roofline, with a small porch

Held up by a turned wooden post,

Slats of tongue and groove ran outward

To meet a visitor at the steps.

The front-door window was bordered

In panes of colored glass, an etched

Window concealed the concealed interior

With a yellowed blind pulled down.

An ornate brass handle held fast

The door that lead into the tiny room.

A naked lamp hung from the parlor ceiling,

Wallpaper was peeling in large sheets.

There was no furniture, but a single table,

Rickety and reinforced, and a chair for one.

The singular seat was for a lonely old man,

His Armenian bible opened to a passage,

Before an empty plate and solitary fork.

A dishrag was neatly folded at the sink.

Outside, beyond the enclosed backporch,

Two wooden doors opened to the cellar,

Carved from hardpan with shovels.

There sat the man’s grinding wheel

From his trade of sharpening knives,

Pruning shears and household utensils.

Grinding with locomotion, only his own.

A well-worn stone on a handcrafted stand,

Spun by his efforts, sat idle,

And purposefully hidden away.

A porous stone with overworked edges,

Fatigued like the man separated from home.

By Stephen Barile

From: United States