What Worry Looks Like

I found it in the coat pocket.

It doesn't look like a paperclip anymore.

It's twisted. Bent back on itself

at angles that serve no function.

The metal is dull from being held,

bent, straightened, bent again.

I can trace the bends.

This one—waiting for a call to go through.

This one—listening to someone explain

why the project was delayed.

This one—during the quiet part

of the appointment when the doctor

doesn't say anything, just writes.

Each bend is a different stress.

A different moment I needed

something in my hands to do

besides sit there. Besides feel.

I remember straightening it out.

Thinking I'd use it for something.

But there was always another one.

Always another paperclip.

So this one just bent again.

And again. And now it's a sculpture

of all the times I didn't know

what to do with my hands.

I put it back in my pocket.

I don't throw it out.

It's not a paperclip anymore.

It's a record. It's the shape

of everything I've worried about.

It fits in my palm.