A weathered finish, hint of original lustre,
Its gleeming orange shouts 'the sixties!'
Toiling scars, edgeless edges, phallic grips etched for show
A traction-tipped business end,
an instrument, a point,
a winter tire for the machine floor.
A hidden connection, this instrument of destruction, of construction.
This hippy's phallus
Fusion unseen, unwitnessed.
I feel it; I hear it.
Turning in the fulcrum of industrialization,
the inner core of society,
the unheralded cog.