Let’s explore the tool belt
with Joshua
who finds leather pockets with slots 
which he says smell like me, 
like monkey-funk.
I say they smell like good work.
Joshua says No, it’s you.

He finds a screwdriver 
for stabbing dirt,

channel lock pliers 
to pick up a dead bumblebee
accidentally—oops—squooshing
bumblebee guts,

a pocket level 
with bubbles to show 
the world is not level 
not even close,

pouches 
full of nails which demand
to be pounded into something right away
like this wood scrap 
Bam bam bam! 

Perfect.
Good job. Now Josh 
you smell like me too.
                        

Trees grow craggy and cranky, says Noah.
One old oak grows sideways
so you can walk the trunk
and we do, Noah and me, 
we walk up the tree and down again
balancing with our arms stretched out
like airplanes
which is cool if you’re four 
or seventy-four.

Noah decides to tour the drinking fountains 
of Flood Park and why not, this fine day
so we run with wings outspread 
a circuit of twenty acres, sampling.
Most are built of concrete, some of shiny steel,
most in sun where the water comes hot,
some under trees where the acorns fall.
One dribbles a bath for birds,
one blasts your nose.
Most of them paired –one high and one low
for the thirsty, for the curious,
for the very young or very old
with so much to discover.

Hardware is magic
only wizards can work. 
Molly bolts that fold and … sproing.
Chain goes clank. Pulleys go squeak.
Eye bolts, can they see? 
Faucet handles like fingers of porcelain. 
Tiny springs from ballpoint pens—they fly! 
Big springs from who-knows-what—they bounce. 
Ornate doorknobs to open a mystery. 
Spark plugs. Radiator caps. Just add car.
U-bolts like threaded horseshoes.  
Wing nuts—perhaps they’ll flap.
Cleats like antlers. Cotter pins … for what?
Accumulated these fifty years 
in coffee cans, cigar boxes, in jelly jars
for some purpose I knew would come. 
Now, my grandson. Here. 
I can see in your eyes you are ready. 
For you, cheerful wizard. 
Make magic.