I’m thinking of late what it
would take to visit the tinkerer,
a guy down the block who
tangentially sees me and my dog
as he talks with a huge hanger-outer
and ratchets some bolt, sandblasts
a plug, solders some nondescript thing,
hearing the tin-sounding songs
from a transistor lost in the tonsils
of his tiny garage, open for business
it seems. I’ve smiled a hello and
received just a blink at the top of
his wire-rims, slightly below the brim
of a hat that spells ELF,
a sponsor of sorts.
I’ll bring in our toaster, its
lever a mess or the coils heat too
fast or—you tell me, after
all, the years you have triaged
something simple as this; I’d wait,
strike up some banter his friends find
so smooth, and finding it hard, I’d resort
to the dog to remind him he’s not to
butt in or bark his advice or mark
this domain as a new claim, however
the visit might go. I’m guessing
some toast would result, maybe a
joke about why folks give up on what
ought to be fixed or tinkered about, at least.
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