National Poetry Month: “Iron II”

For the eager guard and

the staunch commander,

in a wooden crate

it knows its fate.

Rusted, black

a blunted point

its sits and waits

for a human joint.

Like hungry chicks

tossed some feed

the hammer-bearer

feels the need.

To pound with clank

the flattened head

into flesh, into bone

the heavy nail driven home.

The nail is made

the nail is sold.

The nail is in a hand

but not to hold.

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