The iron gate’s dormant hinges, fat
with the rust and moss of years
spent in content and oblivious fog,
screamed in alarm if the prisoner
so much as leaned against its bars,
to see what was beyond the mist.
And he, fat with the oxide of a life
barely lived, a desire coagulate,
sighed in resignation as he searched
his heart for a memory, a shadow
of open space where he once might fly.
On the darkside there he found it, a pen,
corroded but full of ink, oxblood-red
and warm, with which he wrote himself
a feather each day by the iron gate,
sheafing himself a pair of wings to soar
anywhere, even with his feet numb
to the fact they never left the ground.
Inspired by my friend Laurie Kolp requesting a Rust poem. I know rust.