Back after all these years and older, The silence better, more like Friendship, two neighbors Rooting for the same team. Rafters are filled with the detritus Of mutual lives: a tent we used For camping at the lake, a punching bag No one hits now, my sister’s furniture. And your workbench is piled higher Than ever with a hundred Accomplished or forgotten Repairs and adjustments, Power sander and soldering iron askew, A wood box filled with broken things Waiting to be renewed. This is what you ended up with. A garage domain, a world of certain things, Perfect fits. I don’t question it anymore. Perhaps, half lost in worlds of ideas And perplexions of beauty, I even envy This yoga of wood and metal tightly joined, Of things held down by nuts and bolts. Admiring this platter you once fashioned, Quail in flight on smoky plastic, I praise It perhaps too much, or awkwardly, meaning A hundred other appreciations left unspoken, Meaning to say you weren’t what I thought, That you never understood the anger Of your sons, the drugs, the grasping For roads. America has nothing to do with this. There’s just the two of us, looking More alike than we realize, feeling What we don’t know how to say.