Her Hands Knew

This cheap plastic hinge,

it keeps cracking apart.

A shoddy design,

a broken, hollow heart.

I glue it, I tape it,

I try to make it stick.

But it falls to pieces,

just a useless trick.

Her gnarled hands, they worked

on oak, on good, strong thread.

"Some things," she would say,

and shake her tired head.

"Weren't meant to hold fast.

You can't mend what's not sound."

A truth I taste now,

on this broken, plastic ground.