The Smell of Putty

I did not believe in love
at first sight.
So I made myself rough
against the grain.
You find me in his workshop
the tools, downed, rusted
we cannot throw or use.
'I blame him,' you say,
reading my weary eyes
flipping the lid
on the smell of putty.
'He never showed us
how to love.'
This plane I pass across my palm
took the top edge
off your bedroom door.
The thinnest sliver turned
to sawdust. None of us
noticed the slight catch
on closing, except him.
Overalls, a cap, laddered.
Love bringing your door
to perfect closure.