No graceful name for it, 
its bottom paint scratched from years 
of shoving things aside, from not
finding what you want, yet
 
big enough for stuff you thought 
might somehow become useful 
when the right need came along.  
The blunt edge of utility. 
 
Like this broken-tip screwdriver; 
for prying what you wouldn’t risk 
a good screwdriver on.  And an unspiraling 
roll of American flag stickers, waxed paper end
 
in a loose curl where the flags were removed, 
the vacant paper rasping on itself
like an abandoned snake skin, intact
as if tearing it off would offend.  
 
It’s worked its way to the back beside  
a photograph of a horse and unknown man 
torn away from the left side of a larger picture 
Is it wrong to throw out someone’s memory?  
 
This broken length of cotton string 
is from the last kite you flew for the kids, 
frayed evidence that what anchors us 
can part of its own weight. 
 
And a partially used package of nails 
and picture hooks for that last family dinner photo
she framed and had you hang in the kitchen, 
the dinner when all of us noticed the change.  
 
And this roll of scotch tape, 
stuck with years of dust, 
still able to hold things together, 
something that’s always been there.
                        

Battered from close, dark collisions, 
screw driver, hammer, pliers, wrench—
hardware to pry, twist, and pound, 
and cross off refrigerator door’s 
To Do list—tools that answer 
when asks rise to needs.
 
In back corners: Grandma’s baby spoon; 
with a tin tea scoop of quieter time; 
and remains of a set of measuring cups—
one in the flour can, another in the sugar—
for drawing refinements from hand-painted jars 
kept on the shelf over the stove.  
 
A third was lost among the lilacs, 
where the mud pies were made.
                        

Free us o lords of light, 
Masters of things that matter.  
 
Give us hands with tasks, 
Tasks that make a difference.  
 
Make us relevant.  Relieve us 
These cold deaths of indifference.