When I’m unable to get the lid off
a jar of dill pickles, Dad hands me
the same bent butter knife he used
earlier to pry open his car key ring.
A toolbox tray in the utility room
has a few rusted nails, some wire,
two hacksaw blades, an ink pen,
several sockets and a toothbrush.
There’s a pair of vise-grip pliers,
three flat tips and a cross point in
the kitchen drawers I’d seen while
searching for a roll of scotch tape.
Dad had tools in the barn, car trunk
and well-house he could never find,
that one of us kids must have used
and didn’t put back where it belonged.
I arrive to borrow a hammer from my
brother’s organized garage filled with
tools for every job to find him scraping
mud from his shoe with a butter knife.