[Intro: spoken, quiet, shop light chain click] Funeral was Tuesday. Today is boxes. Pull chain. Fluorescent hum. Same smell of oil and rain. [Verse 1: measured boom-bap, clear diction, storytelling] First thing I see is the coffee cans lined on the shelf Maxwell House, Folgers, each one labeled in his handwriting, not mine Wood screws. Drywall. Machine bolts sorted by size He spent twenty years organizing what he never used twice Oil stain on the concrete still maps where the Buick sat I park my rental in the same spot like that still means something Half a birdhouse on the bench, roof cut, never nailed Pencil marks for a shelf he measured and never built His yellow work gloves still hold the shape of his hands I try them on. Too big. I leave them where they land Bungee cords hung like a rosary on a nail by the door A jar of washers that sounds like rain when I shake it once A rake with three teeth left and a shovel that still has mud from a garden he quit [Hook: sung, warm, soft child choir mixed low in the background] Coffee can screws and a half-built roof He kept the parts, never said the truth Shop light humming like a held-back prayer I came for the tools. I found him there (child choir, soft, low: he meant to say it) [Verse 2: denser pocket, concrete details] Found a calendar from ninety-eight still tacked to the door March circled twice. No note. Just a pen that dried out years ago Radio dial frozen on the AM station he pretended not to love Country ballads when he thought nobody was listening I open the top drawer. Receipts. A broken tape measure. A photograph Me at nine holding a wrench I could not lift On the back in pencil: he'll get it when he's ready I was never ready. He never said that out loud either Damn. The dust on that picture is thicker than the silence in this room I wipe it with my sleeve and somehow make it worse His thermos still has coffee rings like tree years on the lid I almost pour it out. I don't. That would feel like erasing him [Bridge: spoken over sparse drums and upright bass] Taped under the bench. Manila envelope. My name. Not son. My actual name. Like he was writing to a stranger he trusted. Hands shake. I sit on an empty paint can. [Double-Time: grief speeding up, crisp diction, no commas in lines] He wrote I was proud of you for leaving even when I acted mad you left and I kept that anger like a tool I never put away Wrote I kept the Buick running every winter so you'd have something solid if the city chewed you up and spit you back Wrote I never learned the words my own father skipped so I skipped them too and that was shit of me and I am sorry in ink Wrote the birdhouse was for your porch the shelf was for your books I measured twice and froze like a coward with a pencil Wrote open the Folgers can the one marked spare on masking tape you will know why when you look underneath the screws I dump it out and under every washer every bolt a spare house key and a note that just says come home when you can [Hook: sung, warm, soft child choir mixed low] Coffee can screws and a half-built roof He kept the parts, never said the truth Shop light humming like a held-back prayer I came for the tools. I found him there (child choir, soft, low: he meant to say it) [Outro: spoken, shop light clicks off] I take the gloves. The key. The half roof. Leave the cans lined up the way he left them. Pull chain. Dark. Rain on the garage door.
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