Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Those Ingrate Tools

Soaring high, using my tools,
comb and brush, with them I groom,
appliances, with those I mash, smash, cook,
dustpans and brooms, vehicles
rarely used for sweeping,
best yet, laptops that spark my passions,
casting their angelic light, until
they fall off grace
and rob me of my delight.

I’m not asking them to be immortal, but
why do they refuse to endure
until my end and abruptly leave
this dimmed earth, taking an obtuse
graveyard path while still resting
in my hands?

I hate the loss, my stone-faced pain,
this tossing them out
in trash bin’s harsh reality,
but as my arms are fashioned to throw,
should anything break,
I’m so there in full fury.


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Prompt: Something you hate to do