It was a gift, brand new in its red box, 
white cross pinned to the body, each
stainless blade bright as the city skyline.
And he was a third-year law student,
a firecracker, a wild animal. He was 
blocks ahead of me. Dancing
at a warehouse party somewhere
south of Market, he told me 
I was cute as a button. I thought 
that was original. The hard music 
rattled the rafters, shook stars 
like a box of bolts. It was my birthday
and I was done with notebooks, 
pencils, and afternoon TV; done with 
backyards and regular hours. I was ready
for new weather, some Haight-Ashbury
steam, but he gave me this knife instead.
I was stunned by the utility of it—
screwdriver, corkscrew, nail file, 
toothpick. It could have been wings. 
The next year, I became a bank teller,
commuted downtown on the N Judah 
while he studied for the bar. He passed, 
of course, and moved on. But I never
lost the knife. After all, how many things
in this world never need sharpening?