I have never liked the way rust feels against the skin.
Shards of old paint curling and collapsing
beneath the press of tiny, grubby fingers
as the latch on the gate fights to remain shut,
last weeks rain, too much for something so old
to face without a little protest.
The tiny flakes that stay behind,
stuck into the sweat and the mud,
too small and sharp to brush off all together
no matter how many times hands are scrubbed
against dirt stained jeans with patches at the knees
or run across the grain of old fence posts
that dot the garden paths and always lead
You must be logged in to post a comment.