The Wrong Thread

The power flickered once and then it died,

leaving the living room a well of ink.

I reached behind the sofa where I hide

the things I shouldn't keep and shouldn't think.

I felt for the flashlight in the plastic bin,

but my hand closed on a handle made of grit.

A yellow screwdriver, the plastic thin,

with all the grease of how you handled it.

It’s a flathead, blunt and slightly bent,

and doesn't fit a single screw I own.

I don't know why it stayed, or where you went,

or why I’m holding it here, all alone.

I put it back beneath the heavy dust

and let it settle in its coat of rust.