He’s in the cellar, his make-shift workshop,
sawing, hammering, gluing, soldering,
under a dingy light.
His wife, long given up on his ever coming to bed,
is fast asleep.
The radio’s on to keep him company,
even though the tuner’s broken and the
one station it gets is static more than talk show.
But it’s noise and that’s what matters.
And it doesn’t ask him what he’s doing down there.
His fingers roam the bench vise.
His hands dig into a box of nails and screws.
And there’s that sawhorse that he built himself.
Everything that feels good to the touch is in this basement.
His latest work is taking shape.
It’s a record cabinet
though he doesn’t listen to music.
Last time it was a bookcase by a man
who’s never read a book.
So what’s next?