The Old Saw
- Mornings I wake the old saw,
- Hand on its heavy side, body braced
- Against its rumble—
- Cold to the touch, fading green,
- Smelling faintly of iron always, and decades
- Of work turned to rot in its carcass
- Smelling too of fresh sawdust, my sweat, hot maple
- As it heaves with and against me.
- The old thing’s turned forgiving with age,
- Or lame—stuttering when provoked, letting
- The brattiest cuts through with a little easing,
- Never kicking back at me. Still
- I try and quiet my coaxing. Close my mouth
- Around sweetheart, darling, dove—
- Bad form to pretend to have tamed
- A strong creature, even an old one,
- Even a lame one, and I like my fingers besides.
- It’s only that sometimes
- Kneeling in dim winter light
- One hand on the switch and the other
- On that workworn hulking body,
- Still half-asleep myself, I find that I’m helpless
- To feed it a soft word or two, slowly, gently
- Just to ease us both awake, in the cold morning.
Photo by Dominik Scythe from Unsplash.
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