Good Tools

He knew a good tool when he saw one.

He collected tools like others collect

thimbles, gnomes, seashells, baseball

stats. He had garages full of tools:

Hammers, nailguns, saws, sawzalls,

drills, drillbits, awls, catspaws;

files, prybars, levels, compressors,

and wrenches, buckets of wrenches,

as though he might one day suffer

a shortage of wrenches.

He had walls of toolboxes,

one for pliers of every kind,

needlenose, plain, grip and fencing,

one for screwdrivers, every kind,

phillips, straight, ratchet, hexhead, pump.

He knew a good tool when he saw one.

He collected bits of me, put all my parts

in buckets, shelves, and drawers,

hooked me onto the wall for later use,

at his convenience. He sorted

and stored me, hoarded me.

Bored from time to time

he’d come enjoy or polish a part;

in the long run, for the most part,

I sat and gathered grease in the garage of his heart

while he proudly occasionally took me apart.

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