there
are losers in this world --
they
walk like turtles with
pliers
affixed to their shells
pulling
off their protection
leaving
them like dull
unpolished
handles glinting
under
unforgiving sun.
losers
hanging from hooks
clothes
awry carrying
their
sorrow in lacquered wagons
their
tears flowing from
bronze
faucets
like
dry eyes.
then
there are the winners
opening
doors with cedar latches
faint
smell of sawdust
hearts
fluttering like hammers
always
certain they are right
winners
string light bulbs
over
dark violent ponds
convinced
that their heat
will
turn the door knob
that
opens.
[Transmutation by Carol McDonald]