having stopped
sweeping up after himself
and having stopped
making that sort of dust,
his saws dull now as thumbnails
and drill bits like twisted fingers on the wall
and wrenches dangling like silver hands
near the Phillips and the flathead drivers
beside jars of screws unscrewed
in piles of empty boards, shelved
opposite halfsawn silhouettes
and cans of stiff paint
and shaggy brushes and pencil stubs
and boxes of parts unsorted
and spots from oily rags long since removed
and with them all the hammers, given their
many handy uses elsewhere in the home,
and inside out on a toolless bench
his unzipped jacket with sleeves like deflated tires
lacking arms to work
the pump that leans nearby
out of place and breathless
all the making having stopped.
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