Giovanni
Malito
The pungence
of grease
and soldering agent
wafts up
into my rose.
And I inhale
the acrid scent
of the memory
that clings
to these tools.
And I push past
hammers,
screwdrivers,
files
and drills.
And I wade
through the depths
of reminiscence.
And though
I don’t know why
or what
I’m looking for
here
in this workshop
I do know
this is where
my father used to come
to fix things.