The Old Labor Force

There’s that wrench sitting on the shelf,

Behind the paint can and the dented cardboard box filled with plastic gloves.

Prize sized and silver yet

Adjustable widths and flexible lengths

Cold and stiff, hiding (our so it seems) in the dark, closet-ness of a cold house

Trapped

Door closed and trembling vents, the radiator hits back and forth

Against the back rim, with no heat but the dents grow deep

Our wrench, the one in question—does not budge.

Like clouds, background noise or scraps for the dogs

There it is still  

In all her glory.

Not a peep, waiting, like the Good Men said she would.

She might oxidize waiting that way, in the damp 

And they were right.

It wasn’t until I searched for a roll of toilet paper that I found her.

Have you ever? A roll of toilet paper, I say

I found her unveiled, unkempt, dismembered (but ironically SANE)

My first reaction was to hiccup, but a cackle escaped

I had been looking for her for so long— the perfect tool!

Until then she was nowhere to be found (or)

At least, I learned later on and after further investigation

That she had been banished.  Expatriated. 

Home Depot informed me that they had stocked up on the latest TFA models

*Limited Edition* models, shiny, unhitched, unexperimented with

Agreeable, compromising, durable, athletic, white steel force

How could the union let this happen?

Whose fault is it? 

I interrogated the spouse,

the kids,

the lover,

And the police, even. 

I wanted to know. 

I went to the town school and asked if they had seen her back then or whenever

They pointed me to clues, like where she had unjammed the doors

A memory board, apparently was her doing

What about the doll house, I asked, what ever happened to that? 

Layed flat on its back in a perpetual state of under-construction

On my way out, they all pointed to a pic of the State (implicated)

Let’s not talk about them, I say, talk about her!

To the eyes of young men, she was simply lost

Unveiled, unkempt, dismembered (but ironically SANE)

Behind the old mop and broken vacuum, she sat

Quietly waiting.

Her steel body appeared to weave in and out between shelves,

Making music with her silence

Prophesizing and philosophizing and writing—

Asking why?

Asking when?

The wrench was my friend and I miss her.

She was my best friend, even.

She reminded me of happenings and hope.

Of  reconstruction and possibility.

She was back then our *Limited Edition*

With no *Lifetime Warranty*

And didn’t.

She had nothing.

She was just a wrench,

Made in a time when a wrench was all we needed to fix things.

Perfectly useful and necessary

But now, we are at 'the end of the day' days

The bottom line days, right?

The days when wrenches are old and unnecessary

Like water out of a bottle.