Ironworks

Save your voice,
Tom Waits;
there’s not enough tender gravel
in the world.

Save your shades,
Bob Dylan;
what you see under the bare land
needs your filter.

Save your hat,
Leonard Cohen;
something unrusted might yet escape
through the top of your head.

Save your battered guitar,
Ellen McIlwaine;
something remains to be drawn
from the funk inside.

We sleep in the ore
you smelt for your needs.
You mine our beds
for your raw materials.
We sit at the forge’s door
and gasp at the heat.
You bring out the work
and we hustle to touch it, still warm
from the fire.

Save us, sidewalk
blacksmiths, alchemists
of dark iron.  We’re always
in need of a little steel
and your blacksmith’s marks
upon it.