Poem: Work

Work

It’s work. Just that. No romance to the thing at all.
I leave the romance to others, the imaginers
who stand at a distance, an audience
to something you never meant to be a show.

Sparks fly. Hammers fall.
Metal slowly bends to your will,
a thing not meant for bending, does,
and for a day or so, you are normal again.

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