REPAIRS - Poem

 

REPAIRS

My father
Never had a tool chest
That I remember.

It seemed
The whole basement,
Was a Red Craftsman.

There were wrenches
And pliers and screwdrivers
Everywhere.

There were drills,
Ratchets and hammers
A million saw blades.

Yet, there was
Organization in the piled
Work benches.

He knew where
Everything's place was
More or less.

Woe be it
If you moved
Anything.

Or forgot
Where it went after
You used it.

And here I stand
In the tool chest aisle
Of the Big Box.

I ponder how
Turning sixty means
You need stuff.

As if just
The right hammer
Could pound old age

Flat enough
To fit into a drawer
Meant for a 1/4 combo.

But there is so
Much that needs fixing,
Replacing.

There is so much repairing,
So much breaking down,
That tools cannot fix.

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