The Mythical Sharpening Man

He came some summers
But not others -

Emerging from
the wavering mirage
of late afternoon heat

Driving up and down
The suburban streets
In his beat up
workshop truck

Ringing his distinctive bell -
Announcing his arrival
in a casual zen like way
as though calling monks
to temple

Ping-ping
Ping–ping

Ping-ping
Ping-Ping

To a curious boy of ten
this mystery truck
needed a closer look

And that summer
I summoned up the nerve
And asked my mother
to give me something
that needed sharpening
anything -
And hurry -he's coming

she fumbled around in the junk drawer
for what seemed like an eternity
and finally handed me a pair
of her old sewing scissors

I ran to the truck
And made my offering
barely tall enough
to see over the side opening

Without saying a word
the sharpening man
turned on the grinding wheel

And the increasing RPMs
of the wheel spinning
produce a pleasant humming

until he put the scissors
against the stone wheel
and they began to squeal

Sparks flew everywhere -
I remember one
that flew up into his smoky gray hair

And in less than a minute
He was done
and I handed him a dollar

"No charge kid," he said-
"this ones on me"
Pointing to a sign that read -

No job too large or too small -
but if it's too small it's free

and he gave the dollar
back to me

Fifty years later
I can still see the sparks
Flying off his grinding wheel

I can still remember
sitting in the shade
of the old oak tree
sequestered from the
hot August sun

Eating the ice cream
with the dollar I had made