Inventory

Thirty-one years of a workshopcomes down to boxes labeledby what he could still lift.

The good chisels. The bad ones, kept anyway.A coffee can of screws sorted by nothinghe ever explained to anyone.

I am not sentimental about tools.I am sentimental about the handthat knew, without looking, which drawer.

We drove it all to the shop down the roadand let a stranger tell us what it was worth,which is not a questioneither of us wanted answered.