Prying off the boreds
To fill the empty space
Stripping the surface of dead wood, rusty nails
Deconstructing shapes of its former function
Form or function?
Why can’t he just have it all?
The scrapped palette had been useful for carrying heavy loads had broad shoulders and big hips like a wooden workhorse
Now found free in a heap behind the dumps-her with the other big trash
Bare bones, a wing of stringy plastic clinging by a staple in the breeze
No longer carrying the weight
Destined to become a trendy accessory
A fashionable table from where he’ll feast.
Born in Providence 
Love “Bare bones, a wing of stringy plastic”. Vivid, connected.
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Thank you.
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The terrible tragedy of this is so understated one had to read more than once to get it.
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Tragedy makes for great writing fuel 😉
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Rueful smile here.
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painful, yet happens too often. And he still wants to use her, yet happens too often 🙂
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Love this!
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A very intriguing poem.
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