Jan 132010

by Timothy Martin

From my elderly father’s shed: an ancient gas mower 

with parts Henry Ford might have rejected. 

A ladder that groans at you if you unfold it. 

A spray can of WD-40 that will need WD-40 

to work.  Something that is either twine 

or talcum powder.  A hoe, two leaf rakes, 

a shovel that itself will be dug up one day. 

Cans of paint that all struggle towards 

the same filing-cabinet gray.  Screwdrivers 

once actually held by Phillips.  A weed whacker 

it would not trouble your conscience 

to give to a child to play with. 

Certain lengths of garden hose married 

outside their species to other hose. 

Like its owner: free of too many splintered surfaces, 

locked but lightly, accommodating withal 

the shadows lengthening like tarpaper on the walls.