I’m digging through the sediment of lives

I’m digging through the sediment of lives

in a house that smells of peppermint and dust.

Past the tangled twine and duller knives,

I find a tool turned orange with the rust.

An Allen wrench, six-sided and so small,

it sat beneath the batteries for years.

It probably held a table or a wall

before the house was flooded with our fears.

It leaves a smell of pennies on my skin,

a metallic tang of things we didn't fix.

I drop it in the black and heavy bin

with all the other broken, useless sticks.