In my father’s body shop, the dual

action air sander’s muffled screams

drown out the pain of the country 

music station. Within the cloud 

of Daytona paint particles, I strip

the luster off a Chevy’s fender. 

And within a fog of questions

I wonder if the cerulean I see 

is the same color as my mother’s ocean. 

If the ancestors I seek would recognize 

the color of the blood within my veins.

But a breeze pushes the clouds

above my head to the once white, now 

gray fiberglass batt on the ceiling. 

Beneath that storm cloud, I wait 

for my father to tell me

I can go home. 

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