Lying on one side, bottom facing
me, you’re a customized mid-sixties
Chevy nose and grill, the horizontal lines
of the Case three-blade pocket design.
Around back I see the cluster of folded
shanks pressed tight, aligned, begging
mechanical action. Always promising
to be discreet even though your top—
which is actually the side where the Case
insignia (long gone) was glued—clacks
where the simulated bone-handle plastic
was cracked when I dropped you on
the garage floor, then accidentally backed
over you. Each hinge snaps open hard
firm, folds shut an echo in your belly
clear and sharp as the bite of a woodcutter’s
ax in the trunk of a tree a fair distance away.
I like you’re heft, even though it wears
holes in my pockets, you’re the perfect
size and weight in my hand. You let me
cut, chop, trim, scrape, clean, pry and screw.