Construction Zone

Ode to a Leather Tool Belt

You, my old companion,
I've junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my butt.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
"What are you doing?"
Then: "Can I help?"

Leather, fourth decade.
I've washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last screw and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn't find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it's you, old tool belt, I'll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He'll understand.

Note: First published in Workers Write!