Bent Wire

The registration spilled, a paper mess,

across the passenger seat, no less.

My old car, rattling, a tired sigh.

And there, in the footwell, catching my eye,

a single paperclip, silver, bent,

all twisted up, completely spent.

Like a tiny question mark, pulled apart,

a useless skeleton, missing its heart.

It must have held something, once, so tight.

A stack of bills, or letters, burning bright.

Now just this wreck, this small, metal shrug.

Like me, sometimes, just not quite snug.

Holding nothing, not even its own shape.

A miniature escape.