The welder

I am a welder at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. After work I cart unused pieces of scrap metal to my garage in Bensonhurst. On weekends I fire up my torch.


A friend at the yard told a reporter about the pieces I’ve been working on and the reporter showed up at my door.

A couple of days later the story was in the paper. It began like this: Anton Kovak writes poetry with an acetylene torch. On weekends, in his garage, the Navy Yard welder forges abstract works of stark force.

I liked the way he put that – “writes poetry with an acetylene torch.” I figured the New Yorker would show up at my door next and then maybe someone from the Museum of Modern Art.

That never happened. So what I just shamelessly repeated about my “abstract works of stark force” is probably the last anyone will ever hear of them – or me.

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