The bowl of fouled water swirls
down the drain, the garbagecan devours
handsfull of tattered towelettes
lanced with fluffheaded q-tips
soiled by old dust, rust, miscellaneous
lubricants. Wearily I tuck
the tiny screwdrivers, willow-shanked
allen wrenches, sharp-toothed pliers
gagged with vinyl sleeves
to bed in cluttered boxes till
next time, rinse the evening's
dutiful filth from patient fingers,
sip last dregs of tea as I scan
their shrouded ranks, three dozen
cleaned microscopes of six types
neatly sealed in poultry bags
still reeking of old weed
against the griming touch
of air and lord knows what, spilt
tea and orchid honey, carbonate
dust from tidied etchings, all
such rain of customary enterprise
till I turn what I can. Lee's school
may take the eight matched Tiyodas
but how can I bear to part out
the Leitz Wetzlar's objective on eBay
though it could fund a new gearbox
for my desert chariot, still longing
for someone to gasp with me
at its crystalline rendering
of diatoms' gracious fretwork
and the shimmering ciliar gown
of a dervish stentor? The clock
scolds me as I set its scolding
six hours before plucking
pear beer from the fridge
to go with the half-gutted possum
still cooled at school if the Head
didn't throw it out, oy, so
much stuff, stuff, but at least
that and the beer will go quickly
before I count how many scopes
are still at school, and yessir
les jus check th'email fore
crashing, only to find
whoops wafted through
the electronic air one petal
pink and white drifted
like the smell of poetry
the hope of spring.