I saw the old man everyday
His garage door open
Revealing his untidy workshop.
This consisted of a workbench
And a never ending collection of jars,
Coffee jars, jam jars, pickle jars,
Each one full of screws, rusty nails, bolts.
Then there was a set of screwdrivers
An ancient hammer and an old coffee mug
Which he sipped from while surveying his handiwork.
Each day it seemed he would build more
New shelves
New bookcases or storage cases.
He was never satisfied
Always creating
Keeping his brain busy.
I imagined his wife inside the house
Humouring his hobby
Setting her mug down on a wobbly side table
And moaning affectionately about her husband’s handiwork.
One morning the garage door was shut.
Seemed he had taken a last sip of his tea
Turned the radio up
And shot himself square in the face with his old army pistol.
His last piece of handiwork
Cut and planed to perfection
Was the coffin in which they lowered him into the ground.

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