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Ode to Forks
Metal claws of the beast
we would much rather
be descended from —
no wimpy swinging in trees,
no equivocating opposable tine —
whether pitching hay or turning soil
their purpose is the same:
to bite what they cannot chew
& carry what they cannot keep.
There are forks also in roads,
in creeks & in tongues,
but for them
everything remains open.
How ironic then that the man-made fork
should epitomize inflexibility:
insurrectionary bedfellow of the torch,