A Lonely Device

The anvil, uncaring,
unfeeling, unsparing,
sounds a blaring
foghorn-howl.

Pulling back, rearing,
coiled, preparing,
is the blacksmith,
hammer-clutching,
with a scowl.

One hit, two,
in sparkling pain,
he finds the truth,

as the hammer sound
reveals the fold
of alloys
and elements

poured

from a once-used,
but now-broken,
mold.

“Improperly cast,
by hand, reforged,”

reads the Rummager.

I am hammered too thin
and I will never fit, again,
into soot-caked forms
or expectations and norms
once thoughtlessly forged
by assemblers bygone.

What is the price?

A lonely device…
bargain bin,
thrift store gold.

A unique treasure
whose value only
the most discerning
(or deluded?) buyer
could possibly behold.

Metal widget, strange curio.

The smith left no meaning,
but I’m at least heavy enough
to prop open a garden door.


© CG Tenpenny, 2022.

Will, where is the sticking place?

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