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.
dukkaqueen 