Tools of the Trade

I never wished to be
a scientist,
yet always gazed
with wonder
upon gleaming glass
beakers filled with
colored liquids
of mysterious recipe.

And although faint
at the sight of blood,
I thrilled to the
shine of surgical
instruments upon
immaculate mirror
of steel trays.

In childhood,
the contents of
my brother's leather
shaving kit
became my top secret
spy paraphernalia
as I would slink
through my home,
collecting evidence
of villainy and crime.

And oh, the frustration
of reckless shopping,
purchasing tools I
lacked the expertise
to employ, seduced
by appearance, blind
to utility,
abandoned
to disuse.

And now, oh now
I have golden statues,
jewel colored pictures
of great intricacy,
Small, heavy brass cymbals
connected by rawhide
thong, chiming
endless pure tones.

I have bamboo boxes
filled with precious secret recipes
of rare substances from
far away lands,
esoteric texts
of great antiquity,
and strings of fragrant
sandalwood beads,
that never
gather dust.