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…
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…