A few weeks (or was it months?) ago We heard the sirens, then the news Ted Johnson, that old guy, the next block over Remember him? With the dog? White hair? Yeah. I remember him. I talked to him. About his garden My garden His dog My dog Our wives both named Margie. Collapsed in his yard. Yesterday, a few weeks (or was it months?) later A handmade yellow sign on the corner: Tool Sale. Overheard Margie (his not mine) telling other shoppers, mostly men, of his work, tools, death, story. Forty years an airline mechanic, you know still fixed engines after he retired, you know Collapsed in the yard. Open garage and folding tables Everything organized in rows like a garden Or a graveyard Wrenches, calipers, sawblades, grease, metal Things like voltmeters, soldering guns Stickered with prices in sharpie Now all of it half off Since the day is ending Twenty-five bucks pressed into his Margie's widowed hand And I own Ted Johnson's heavy as hell (carried to the car in a wagon) cast iron belt-driven (The belt in fine shape) bench-mounted modded a bit by Ted Himself Drill press.