I come home
and the stencil and the etching acids
have been moved. The fine punch
and whittle knife have moved.
The black cloth for the table,
the thin threaded screws in the stable,
the snips, the lenses,
the zero gauge wire unbended,
the chair, it's cushion, my glasses,
the magnifier, my glove, my apron,
needlenose and all, my two ounce hammer,
kerchief, and key ring,
my pointer, lucky leaf, and my awl.
The irons, the spreader, the cutting wheel,
the oils, my pencil and elbow rests,
napkins and scrap paper,
everything removed from the lamp chest
and left across the table like
an arm of the Milky Way.
Nothing glitters until the lamp is turned on.
From the doorway to our office
nothing is gone
in the light from the window moon shine.
"Time will come like a thief in the night"
reminds me not to fear. The leather band
between the pincers and the gears
still in place
awaiting another's finger tips
to turn it's dial, the spring a spiral
of coiled silver, embedded,
the face ready to be set and the hands
glued in place with a fine tipped gun
and a more reliable hand.
The door shuts. The key enters.
