by Megan Grumbling
appears between our weekly beers
one afternoon. It’s small, but has some weight
to it — cast iron, solid, and as plain
as our own hands. He and I heft and hold
it, pass it back and forth, delight
in how damn good it feels to grip, to lift.
Then all at once, he slides the thing across
to my side of the table, nods, and leaves
it there, making it mine for good: a tool
I’ll reach for whether I have need to make,
to mend, or to delight. His gift reveals
such useful beauty, such beautiful use
in almost anything, even this plain
but heavy thing between our weekly beers.