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Ode to the Discarded

While sitting on the curb,

I see a rusty old bolt

laying on the pavement.

 

I pick it up,

turn it and feel its heft,

its cold edges,

My fingers

now stained orange.

 

I run fingertips

over threads

still sharp,

See Also

not stripped.

 

It once held

something together,

 

and still could.

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