Entering my father’s workshop is often a trap.
Once past the locked door and the large power tools, everywhere is sensual engagement:
sights, sounds, smells.
With every step a complicated enigma pops into view.

Why is a large, thick yellow ball painted with an eyeball; staring at the ceiling?
What is the reason the ball is under pressure,
trapped off the ground?

Who knows?
My father did tell me where the buckets filled
with bent nails could be found.

Did I want twisted nailgun or hammered nails?
Rusted, oiled, steel, or zinc plated?

I am still looking for the deformed and useless nails.

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