This morning, I hauled to the street

A heavy wooden pallet, so beat

The workmen had left it behind:

Its boards, rough-hewn and splintering

Against the asphalt. When I leaned

It on the dumpster, with some twine

And flattened cardboard boxes, too,

For the trash-man, a March gust blew

And overturned what I had built.

The hard wood clattered on the road

And split, exposed its secret load

Of bent and rusted nails, now spilled,

Scattered like seeds, like teeth and bones,

Awaiting tires, the feet of those

Too lost in song to watch their step.

One nail stared up from the cracked wood.

I plucked it out, just as they would

Who returned you to your mother’s lap.