For Roger E. Haag (Aug. 2, 1930–Oct. 8, 2004)

Every time I’m in his garage,
I’m searching for my father,
20 years gone today,

though I know his essence
remains tucked into every old
Skippy peanut butter jar shelved

in the sagging wooden cabinet.
He’s in there with the screws
and nuts, with bolts ranging

from tiny to so big that they
once ringed my small fingers,
a treasure trove guarded

by loyal soldiers still standing
at attention in precise rows.
Tough-to-open metal lids,

rusty and dusty, crown each
jar. I apply all my oomph,
as he would say, to open one,

and, before my fingers dive in
to explore the treasures inside,
retrieve just what I need,

I inhale him, long encased,
a little genie of a handy man,
a father waiting to be released.