Long Unspoken Fury

How was it my fault,

Dad,

When those dime store Wallabees

Melted through the furnace grate?

How you always chided me

When I said I was afraid,

“Don’t be such a fraidy cat.”

Now you stand and seethe, enraged

Learning what I always know.

Floor grates lead to misery

And premature, stinky, deaths

For green plastic army men

And your cheap-ass knock-off shoes!

Gleeful Recreation

That old thing? It’s garbage!

Worn beyond repair.

There’s pieces missing.

It just don’t work.

Besides, it’s ugly as hell.

It ain’t worth the effort

to give it away.

Lord knows it’ll sure never sell!

So there it sat

rusting and rotten,

a refuge for rats,

forgotten.

And that’s the way that I found it,

buried in decades of leaves,

gone over to rot and decay.

So, what permission, I seized it

and happily hauled it away.

I see some beauty

in worm eaten woodwork

patina’d by years of sunlight,

lichen, leaf mold, and rain.

And in its metal remains

weathered beneath

the rust revealing

a roadmap of courage and pain

etched deeply into each surface

glazed over with alchemical stain.

Yes, It’s beyond restoration.

It will never be as it was;

but that doesn’t mean it is worthless.

Together with other detritus,

we will construct common cause.

Designing therefrom

some homunculus,

fitting a whole new function

denying original form.