Thursday, September 12, 2013

Don't Touch My Junk

Bending Light

The junk drawer stacks eye level
where I drink my morning coffee
the stainless pull an easy reach
with my free hand.  Paws shingle
in baleful prayer, brown eyes
shoulder a tented brow, the dog
steeps at my feet in ethnographic studies. 
A Master Lock, indifferent
to a bag of loose keys
freebooter screws and their suitor
tools, a Philips and two flat heads
pair of needle nose rounding out
a handyman’s quartet, all of it shot through
with the unraveled mind of baling twine
I can’t recall never having been entwined
or the reason I bought it in the first place.   
Blame it on the coffee, but with a little rooting
some minor adjustment and twine
encoded with a series of knots
a handy gizmo for the bending of light
sits waiting for trials, ready to extrude
the first molten rays of morning.
A golden light with give, it yields
with a squeak when run through the maze
burning my hand when I heft it to cool
smoking on the table, driving off the dog
a radiant tiara to wear 
with your pilled pink bathrobe. 

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