tin man

“i was an inmate in a tin suit,
creaking, rusting slowly
like the inside

of a downspout on an abandoned
house;

restless and weary similar to the
homeless waiting for

cold, inedible soup;

sat in my kitchen, ate soup out of
a tin pan with
a tin spoon,

drank stale water out of a tin
cup poured from a tin
pitcher;

dreams in the night made me
cry, and when i couldn’t,

i would peel an onion with a
tin, rusted knife,

in the mornings, was abruptly
woken by a clock with tin
hands;

out in my yard to do the yard
work, then came the rain,

i rusted up solid like a ship in
the Dead Sea;

then the clicking noise of oil
being dispersed by a
kind hand,

creases of a smile formed on
either side of my mouth,

no more straining to move like
a drummer boy on a
battlefield;

removed the tin suit with a
tin can opener,

now breathing her laughter,
her existence,

i am just beginning.”

 

Copyright © 03/28/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

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