Saw Dust

by Samuel De Lemos

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My Papa, cut wood
in his garage. I remember
the loud whine of his
table saw.

The scent of freshly
cut wood is intoxicating.

His garage smelled like
wood and a newly ridden
Harley Davidson.

Sometimes I’d go into
the garage just to
sneak a whiff.

I spent all day
cutting wood with
my table saw.

Now my garage
floor is covered
in golden colored
saw dust.

The only thing is,
I don’t have a bike,
so the air in my
space isn’t replicated.

Not the way my Papa
had his.

I’m destined to live
with saw dust.

That’s the one thing
that remains the same.

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