Inventory

Thirty-one years of a workshop“comes down to boxes labeled“by what he could still lift.“

The good chisels. The bad ones, kept anyway.“A coffee can of screws sorted by nothing“he ever explained to anyone.“

I am not sentimental about tools.“I am sentimental about the hand“that knew, without looking, which drawer.“

We drove it all to the shop down the road“and let a stranger tell us what it was worth,“which is not a question“either of us wanted answered.“