Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Do It Yourself

The table waits,
cradling the nail he
meant to hammer in that afternoon, but,
lost, on his way to the fridge, he
never now will fix.

Wasted in waiting,
for a blow that never comes
unexpected falls elsewhere.

The busted leg, its
grain split open waits
to catch every passing friend and
every time reminds
of missing piece.

I just submitted this for workshopping in my poetry class, so thought I'd share it with you all :-)

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