| These Shovels Don’t Dig |
Object Poem: End of the Week |
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| 1. Pair of plastic turquoise tools |
Solemn, Sacred Guardians |
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| 2. Yet now, he vows he will not use. |
1. Blue, plastic shovels. Alone. Forever. |
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| 1. Locked away, and in darkness ever kept. |
2. They used to have fun back before the computer. |
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| Above hangars in a doorless closet. |
3. The computer stole the show with its videogames. |
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| 1. If patience is a virtue, then we are saints. |
4. And from movies and shows its popularity came. |
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| 2. He can not continue to keep us away. |
1. But the shovels aren’t jealous. They’re better than that. |
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| 1. He has not outgrown us, he never will. |
2. They’ve been abandoned; but they're happy, in fact |
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| 2. Nor can he replace us with pen or pencil. |
3. They’re proud that their child no longer needs their help. |
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| 1. Immortal, as long as he lives. |
4. But even now, they subtly guide him, even while on their shelf. |
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| 2. Broken, shattered, we return again. |
1. The shovels watch over him through pencils and pens. |
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| 1. Many lives have we lived, nearly always together. |
2. They grant a familiar comfort to his hands. |
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| 2. He can not play with only one shovel, never. |
3. Not much is sure in life, but these shovels are constant. |
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| 1. A square-shaped spade in the hand, held, |
4. They can be broken or lost, but return after each event. |
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| 2. And a semi-circle stretched head. |
1. These shovels hold a hidden wisdom of maturity. |
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| 1. Two shovels, about a foot in length. |
2. Age does nothing to increase security. |
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| 2. Sacred objects, he cannot risk break. |
3. And most things are not lost, they simply evolve. |
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| 1. Though in the spades themselves, no meaning lies. |
4. I’m not a shovel. I’m not an object. I am in control. |
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| 2. Our spirit in whatever he holds resides. |
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| 1. We cannot die, We’ve broken before. |
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| 2. We’ve been red, yellow, blue and more. |
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| 1. We can take any form, as a tool or a toy. |
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| 2. We spades, rakes, rulers, squares and pens brought joy. |
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