He prowls the drive-in theater
In daylight through a tinny confusion
Of accordions from the land to the south
Among stalks of sugarcane
Boxes of eight-track tapes
Purses
T-shirts
Toys and dishes
The detritus of other folks’
Much too much lives
He rescues forsaken tools
Sorting through tumbled piles
Of another craftsman’s legacy
Brass plumber’s torches
Hand planes
Wrenches
Box, open-end and combination
Channel locks
Lineman’s pliers
Ball-peen hammers
He brings them home
Loves them to shiny usefulness
Shares them with his children
Grand and not so grand
Best of all are the spirit levels
Glowing, true lengths of wood
Indispensable for hanging pictures
They don’t leave marks on the wall
My father who scoured the flea markets, pictured here and above, in his youth.
This is just lovely. For some reason this poem sent me right back to the 1970s. Welcome to the Farm!
Thank you Stephanie. Delighted to be here.
Thanks, Stephanie.
Beautiful, it really moves!
Thank you Steve.
Many thanks, Steve.
Thanks, Steve.