07/13/2025
The One Man Show
In the spray-booth's glow, where fine dust descends,
A lone figure toils, where crushed metal bends.
No bustling crew, no apprentice in sight,
Just one man's precision, bathed in the harsh, focused light.
The fumes gently linger, on a mask-muffled face,
A silent devotion, in this solitary space.
Hours stretch long, past the last fading sun,
Sanding and shaping, till the job's nearly done.
He hammers and fills, with a practiced, keen eye,
Each dent a challenge, beneath a clear sky.
But unseen the struggle, the ache in his bones,
The silent demand, only he truly knows.
A child's crayon drawing, taped up on the wall,
A soft, tender whisper, responding to his call.
A wife's quiet comfort, a hurried embrace,
Exchanged for the work, in this paint-splattered place.
The parts are delayed, the schedule slips back,
A silent apology, on a solitary track.
"He's just one man," the kind words are said,
While the weight of their wishes, rests heavy on his head.
For the seamless repair, for the paint's perfect gleam,
For his wife's understanding, a cherished, sweet dream.
For his children's bright future, and a life he can find,
He toils and he shapes, leaving no flaw behind.
Each restored vehicle, a testament bold,
A story of grit, in a shop worn and old.
A quiet artist, in his own dusty domain,
Giving his all, through the effort and strain.
-A Body Mans Wife
