Is it possible
that this short,
truncated coil of silver wire,
bent back upon itself,
three times, was once
an endless extrusion and now
clasps meaning in a tidy pile?
Now, it holds together love-letters,
collected passionate exchanges,
recipes for soup clipped from the papers
and reminders of payments past due.
What workman, minding his machine,
for this endless metal hair
to apportion it given lengths,
idling his thoughts
of papers to be compiled, at home,
into discrete piles of similar information?
One never has to buy this elegant inch
of triple-looped pinch.
It arrives daily in the mail
from the offices of bureaucrats.
It outlives ephemeral pages of importance
into a stoneware bowl.
GM, November 7, 2004
This is in response to a writing workshop prompt to write a poem about an object. I like paper clips!