my father told me
with his hat pushed back
cigarette hanging from his lip
green leaves and orange sky 
serving as a backdrop
he sat at a picnic table
he built 
with his own hands 
that a man
will work himself to death

he didn’t tell me 
that if that man 
knew how to say how he felt
he wouldn’t have had an aneurysm 
shingling a roof
or that he might have 
caught the cancer 
before it ate up his brain

though they weren’t the last words
my father ever said 
they serve as a warning
that those aching muscles 
torn skin 
stained clothes 
won’t fix anything 
that’s broke