Good Enough Until It Isn't

The screws stripped out years ago.

My father taught me this: pack the hole

with toothpicks, drive them in a row,

rescrew. It holds. Not whole,

not fixed, but holding—which I thought

was different from the same thing.

I found his photo when I sought

a plow-head screwdriver this morning.

His face mid-squat, mid-fix, mid-squint.

I put it back and took the driver

out to the shed. Every hint

of him in how I hover

over hardware, how I do

just enough. The hasp bent, the wood

soft at the frame. I packed it through

with toothpicks. Closed it. Good

enough. He would have done

exactly this, and gone inside,

and not thought about it. Son

of a son of a man who tried

and tried and left the holes

a little wider every time.