Tool box

Ah, Dad.

If I could coax the flat washers from the jars in the garage

with your Robertson screwdrivers and your chisels and pry bar,

wearing one of your shirts and a visor cap from the closet

I emptied, pausing to apportion the family photographs,

then Dad, I would unscrew the brackets and the wall-mounted bumpers, use your gouges and lathes, your routers and bits to unplane and unjoin

all the latches and hatches and letter-mail slots,

all the loose-pin butt hinges of the heavenly hostelry,

removing the hollow-door anchors and tin toggle bolts

of Death’s crumbling masonry,

the staples and stain from your double-wedged eyes

clumsy as I am I would remove them all, Dad,

taking casket keys and swag hooks ornate as Swedish question marks

to the rimlocks and deadbolts and dummy-lever handles

of the rabbet-and-dado joints of pews

wharfing their mortise-and-tendon jeremiads

to the hard-soled vigorous mortis of shuffling shoes

and the clink of table forks

at the basement reception we held for you

at the Parktown Motor Inn

inserting dinner buns

unclenching paper napkins

which I would forget if I could, Dad,

but I find myself smudging the chalk line.

.