A paperclip alone in the drawer

A paperclip, alone in the drawer,

a forgotten piece of bent wire.

One end a little straighter than before,

from some forgotten, desperate fire

of need. I pick it up, it’s cool

and smooth, between my fingers.

I twist it back, a small groan

of metal, a quiet tension

and then the spring. It wants to be

straight, then curved, then hold some plea.

It’s just a thing, made to connect,

to keep things tidy, to protect

from falling apart. A small, hard will.

Leaving a faint metallic scent on me, still.