Your Life As Found In A Toolbox Poem by Allen Braden

Everything necessary to maintain
every foundation ever built so far
is found simply by fondling the latch,
easy as recalling a less-than-fond past,
and then by handling each orderly tray
of tools too simple to call hand tools:
a stick of chalk meant for marking
the measure of almost anything
from concrete to an assortment
of planks sorted out as useless;
that yellow Stanley measuring tape
used to measure what used to matter;
and one lead stone to plumb the line,
much like a fisherman's sinker or fob,
and gauge the point of vanishing.

Reach much deeper to find those
that fit the hands perfectly
of any man who constructs
a reluctant living with his hands:
the square a clumsy boomerang
perfect at setting the record straight;
a claw hammer meant to hammer
whatever it can to your expectations
then claw them apart on second thought;
and finally, ultimately, the spirit level
with its single, jaundiced eye
leveled expectantly in your direction
and rolling whenever you breathe,
the only bubble in the world
that won't burst at the slightest breath.