It's not what you imagined, these
late nights of glue and limitation,

hands salt-sticky from snacks,
directions in three dead tongues.
You begin a Braille translation,
parts spread over the shred of rug

not puppy soiled. Setting aside
singular shapes, stacking baggies
of bolts, you time your breaks
to shaggy dog's piddles and poops,

convert to the church of the socket
wrench, metal screw, and wing nut.
Another month or year passes
while you buy the pictured tools,

matching a drill bit from aisle five,
bin three, to black lines sketched
in China. Now the old dog creaks.
You learn to navigate the alp

of stacked parts half awake.
And in the minutes between
dreaming and sleep, you work,
you work until you get it right.