Tools in winter

A spare and lonely lot

now the workmen have all gone

Carhartts employed in other gigs

Remaining pallets draped in tarps

and tools of a season

stowed in dusty corners

To be uncovered of leaves and dead stinkbugs

when grasses green again

Or instead, one may ponder

the fate entombed in bins

To ride the sides of trucks

contracting, brittle

and bathed in salt

 

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