Kierkegaard’s Swiss Army Knife

Not an especially deadly weapon,
It had many other uses:
Flaying an apple, carving a lovers name on a tree trunk,
Cleaning your nails are but a few examples
Of the life and work of your garden variety swiss army knife.

We bought our knives at the corner convenience store.
I remember the smell of sawdust that pervaded the place.
This time I wasn’t buying cigarettes for Dad.
We were buying admission to “cool”.

Now, so many years later,
Sorting through the remains
Of our all too brief childhoods,
We puzzle over the improbability
That we have both retained
This piece of history.
These twins of incipient manhood
No longer resemble one another.

I have continued to live in the city,
Using my knife to cut string on occasion
And pry a jar of marmalade open.

You have whittled hearts and initials
On tree trunks, and cut cactus for dinner,
Traveling where you please.
No surprise that our knives attest to different journeys

Why should we find it strange that the religion
You and I thought we shared
Has been modified, like the knives, by our handling,
And the spirit that you call god differs from mine.