Dull Edge

It was buried in the heavy chest

between the socket wrench and the level.

A serrated bread knife,

its teeth bitten by orange rust.

We never had enough drawers

in that place on Fourth Street,

so I kept the cutlery near the nails.

I hold the plastic handle

and remember how the blade

would tear through a crusty loaf

instead of cutting it clean.

I don't even have a toaster anymore.

I drop it in the box for the Goodwill

and wonder if it’s still sharp enough

to do any real damage.