Once pushed
from the top of the stairs
it is supposed to swing itself
end over end
to the bottom,
but how many times does it instead
come to a quivering stop
only partway down?
Do this often enough
and you will become frustrated
and scorn its alleged magic;
sit instead with it in your hands
and bounce it back and forth,
stretch it out, fan the coils
like a deck of undealable cards;
eventually discard it
or give it away
or sell it to some sucker at a yard sale.
But you always buy
another one,
usually at a yard sale,
certain that this time
will hold the charm —
you,
a middle aged man
who will never learn.
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Dark Matter 
March 15th, 2010 at 9:40 am
You are one of the few, true, all-seeing poets I’ve ever run across. And the most productive one I’ve ever seen, especially of continued excellent work. Not that my opinion counts for much, but just wanted you to know I stand in awe.
A slinky for God’s sake, and you write a life poem about it.
Pearl
March 15th, 2010 at 9:46 am
Oh, dear… thanks. Just the product of having time on my hands…I try to write at least two hours a day. I’m self-employed and work mostly from home, partly so I can carve out that time; quit my 20+ year corporate career a few years ago for that reason. It’s occasionally scary in terms of income, but it’s what I do. The only thing I can do.
As for the Slinky…well, everything is in everything. Even in a Slinky.
March 15th, 2010 at 9:51 am
Well, you are good at it and it seems you made the right choice, income be damned. Everything is in every thing, isn’t it? Hadn’t quite thought of things like that. Pearl