Interim

The sink is weeping under the pipe,

a slow, rhythmic failure.

I found the wrench in the dark

near the winter tires.

His name is written in purple ink

on the rusted steel grip—

a man who wasn't mine

but stayed to fix the leaks.

I open the old metal box

and the scent of him hits me:

sawdust and menthol cigarettes,

the quiet labor of a stranger

who decided to be a father.