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]