Tensile Strength

The garage smells like old gas and damp.

I reached for the mower’s black handle,

but the hemp cord felt soft as a wick

burning down on a dying candle.

It’s fuzzing out in yellow, dry strands,

the braid giving up its hold on the gear.

A thousand pulls have worn down the life

of the only thing that worked in here.

One more yank and the fibers will part.

I can see the white core starting to show.

It’s the sound of a center losing its heart,

letting the rest of the machinery go.