Dave Bonta's poem takes a humble household tool and looks at it from every angle, the way an ode usually does with something grand. It opens with a blunt, funny image: cutting the legs off old jeans. Then it wanders through scenes where scissors turn up. They sit in a basement, a craft box and a sewing cabinet, which makes the speaker feel oddly rich. They appear in the children's game of rock, paper, scissors, in a mother's worry about a left-handed pair, and in a raccoon's delight at a shiny scrap of metal.
The tone is light and affectionate, with a dry sense of humor. The memory of being teased for new glasses, with kids peering through scissor handles, adds a small sting of embarrassment. The last lines change the mood. The speaker walks stiff-legged and careful, and the poem suggests a quiet wariness. Scissors are ordinary and useful, but they can still cut.