The Tinkerer's Shed

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The Tinkerer's Shed 


Most every tool has a home 

here, this tin-roofed tangle

suspended somewhere between


upended and just ordered enough

to whiff beneath sawdust the certain

musk of somebody knowing


what’s what. Levels hang crooked

from a pegboard; a box

of loose wrenches tightens down


one corner of a scraggle-toothed

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. Hardware? Like his words,


poorly-labeled and pouring. Steps?

None too sure. No list of projects

on the door. What’s thicker than dust here


is a sturdy faith in hobbled things 

and the unshakeable duty of being

born in a tilted world with shims


on our wrists. In this rust and rattle, 

this palace of partialities, that's all 

you get: One clear and terminal task. 

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