By: Carl Papa Palmer 

Lying up under the car
on the floor of my garage
I see his little feet arrive,
the shadow of his head
bending down to ask,
“Whattaya want, Dad?”

“Hand me that number two Phillips
on the workbench over there, son.”

I watch him switch his weight
from one little foot to the other,
step away, start back, stop,
turn around and then
scamper back to the car,
leaning lower to ask,
“Dad, is the Phillips a plus or a minus?”