With apologies to Alice Walker…
In search of my Father’s garage, I found my own.

My Father’s Garage

When it comes to a working man
his garage is biography…

Tools talk.
Junk drawer jabbers.
Floor shimmers
in patterns of fixed or failed:
     grease and oil stains,
     blood and rust.

Ancient ashtray on the counter,
littered with coffin nails,
each the ghost of a rambling tale.

Every tool in my father’s garage
bore his mark…

Landscaping tools,
scarred with welds:
     proof of resurrection;
     scrubbed and oiled;
hanging in immaculate rows
on the wall.

Tools, tools, tools,
a drawer full of grip:
     Channel locks, needle nose, vice grips;
     ratchets in quarter-inch drive,
half-inch drive;
     three-quarter inch drive for serious motivation, or
     a really big bolt.
Seven-sixteenths box end wrench
ground down
to fit in tight places.

Persuasion tools:
     flat bar, crowbar,
     six-foot pry bar made of
     cold-rolled steel.
Sixteen-ounce claw hammer,
one claw shorter than the other
like Dads gimpy leg;
victims of too much leverage…

Many of these tools
left their mark:
     slivers and scars,
     burns and bites,
     calluses and contusions.

Creation demands payment.