-Toolbox-

It’s not much bigger than a lunchbox.

Inside a small hammer missing its righthand claw,

and a larger hammer for the big jobs.

A rusted pipe-wrench, a hex-head screwdriver,

two phillips-head screwdrivers, both the same size,

and an old set of pliers with electrical tape wrapped

around its handles ready for action. — A staple gun,

a blade-less linoleum cutter, four yellowing Band-Aid

plastic Strips, and a broken wall switch for the ceiling light

which never worked. the house-tools of my father.

––The tools of the liquor salesman on the road

are not less utilitarian, not less tactile, yet more skillfully

utilized through an everyday necessity.

––An engaging attitude. The ease of entry.

Handshakes all around. A trench coat whose collar

lifts gently at the back of the neck.

A soft fedora whose brim waves downward, gracefully

at the forehead just before the break.

Presentation. Presentation.

A trunk-load of cardboard displays with young women

cut-out to shape in one-piece bathing suits peddling the beer

brands real men should  drink.

A #2 pencil with head-worn eraser.

A paperback pocket ledger riven through the miles

of each closing week tracking the sales.

Weariness. Weariness. 

A '56 Buick older than its years.

The same day's route traveled eastward, route 6

toward the bars and restaurants of the Cape, the same

night's route traveled westward, route 6 toward home.

Quequechan