Bag of Holding

He was a carpenter, an engineer. He kept a dark brown leather tool pouch close at hand, housing his most commonly used tools and it traveled back and forth between the house and his shop in the garage.

The pouch's leather was thick, stiff, and smelled of metal. It traveled a lot, sometimes, it would be sitting on the breakfast room table. Other times, you’d find it next to the washing machine near the knife sharpener and keys. Turn around and it would be sitting open, with handles radiating out the zippered top on the workbench.

There was a hammer, a few screwdrivers, and the obligatory wrenches; I, personally, have always been partial to the crescent wrench.

Theater, rolls, moon.

The bag was a sliver of that world in this and this world in that. Something would sing its presence from deep within, harmonizing

Here it is, in between
Left to right
(t)here
oscillating
betwixt
these
shores.
La bijou.
glistening, deep within.

It was a Bag of Holding.