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.