It was gift from my father
“It’s yours”
it’s weight — all his
life in toil — beaten and chipped
like the burden he carried
on his shoulders now bent
with bursitis. “Take this”
his shouts when he swung
framing 2x4s into tight places
“Take this hammer”
to build your life — it was
not his best, likely his worst,
well-used a handle cracked,
not handled with care
it carried kisses of rust
“Hold it here” with
strength and intention
a wisdom of criss-crossed
whitened scars
“Pick your spot” his
hands on my arms
use it to lever and lift
crooked nails
from mistaken projects
sometimes
leaving smiles where I
missed my mark
“Be more than me”
find nuances in drafting
pencils and periodic tables
where I discover Pb is lead
and poetry is what I read
yet I’m drawn to the weight
of the hammer in my hand
a capacity for brute force
breaking slate for a walk
hanging my family
upon a wall
even remembering
“You can be anything.”

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).
Today’s prompt: Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it.