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.