My purpose is to turn the earth,
not to act as a perch
for a rust-ridden bird
made of nuts and bolts
no good for anything else.

My self abhors the chuckles
of passers-by,
they know not what I can handle:
I’ve toiled;
in soil I’ve turned;
I worked hard,

yet I was spurned
and then discarded,
now, I’m found.

Polly Stretton © 2020

Revised for napowrimo #24