In the Tinkerer's Shed

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In the Tinkerer’s Shed 


Most every tool has a home 

here, this tin-roofed tangle

suspended somewhere between


upended and just order enough

to suspect that someone knows

what’s what. Levels hang crooked


from a pegboard; a box

of loose wrenches tightens down

one corner of a toothless


table saw; leaned on the wall  

and looking down from the loft 

a constellation of scraps bear weighty


thoughts of all they might one day

mean. What’s thicker than dust here 

is a sturdy faith in tilted things 


and the unshakeable duty of being

born with shims on our wrists.

What’s missing, like the one nut


needed to take this rust and rattle

and cinch it all right, 

is a clear and terminal task.

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