From the river that received his ashes like alms,
my father stands at his workbench, tinkers

in the service of the lesser angels now,
heaven acceding his need for a 40-watt bulb

cornered away from the radiant surge of Shekinah glory.
Departed souls about him will get used to the dimness,

study him putzing about with obsolete tools he kept
in case of a Great Depression rebound—

nails writhed from hurricanes, rusted augers, chuck keys,
a Studebaker taillight he swore could illume a snowy

Christmas window. Sometimes under his bulb
he’d flick away moths worthy of the empty corners

of the local Sears that passed away the year he did,
his opposite fist holding coffee so burnt and bitter

it’d keep the devil awake, and drill bits the world
gave up on, scored with dust in that diminutive corner

of eternity, still holding their own, wild to claim a chunk
of metal or oak, startled to be in his hands.