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Tools
Tell me, how do the manufacturers of tools turn a profit? I have used the same clawed hammer for forty years. The screwdriver misted with rust once slipped into my young hand, a new householder's. Tools wait obliviously to be used: the pliers, notched mouth agape like a cartoon shark's; the wrench with its jaws on a screw; the plane still sharp enough to take its fragrant, curling bite; the brace and bit still fit to chew a hole in pine like a patient thought; the tape rule, its inches unaltered though I have shrunk; the carpenter's angle, still absolutely right though I have strayed; the wooden bubble level from my father's meagre horde. Their stubborn shapes pervade the cellar, enduring with a thrift that shames our wastrel lives.