His car wouldn't start.

I offered him my battery,
     the one I bought two years ago to
     replace the one my
     father-in-law put in after
     a Syracuse winter did in the
     one factory-installed.

His hood wouldn't open.

I offered him my toolbox,
     the one my dad gave me with
     the blue-handled tools and the
     blue plastic case with
      "Do It Herself"
     stamped on the cover.

His flashlight went out.

I offered him my penlight,
     the one from the Air Force chaplain,
     handed out at the
     Pastor Appreciation Luncheon in
     thanks for our ministry to
     the airbase personnel.

His know-how failed him.

I offered him my laptop,
     the one my mother donated
     to the church when she
     no longer needed it, which
     was later delivered to me as a
     no-hard-feelings parting-gift.

His persistence dwindled.

I offered him a cup of hot tea.
     He chose the inexpensive, store-brand
     ginger tea and sat on the hood,
     drinking and listening to
     the chirping of the dying battery,
     the hooting of the neighborhood owl.