Walls, floors, windows, caked in soot
like the man himself, in steel-toed boots,
dwarfed by the ten-foot buttressed pier
of rusted steel he’s hoarded more than fifty years.
Angled on the work at hand, a skylight cuts
the pitch-dark shop with shafts of fine metallic dust
I hold my breath to breathe.
like the man himself, in steel-toed boots,
dwarfed by the ten-foot buttressed pier
of rusted steel he’s hoarded more than fifty years.
Angled on the work at hand, a skylight cuts
the pitch-dark shop with shafts of fine metallic dust
I hold my breath to breathe.
Martin Wagner grits his teeth;
five-pound maul in his death-like grip, he strikes
his anvil double-time. Chime on chime
steel leaves are doubled back and bludgeoned flush.
Sprays of hot sparks bloom and fade, extinguished
like so many sea-drowned stars.
The coal-forge shimmers green as Venus, red as Mars
and somewhere, far below, a rusty bellows gives a wheeze.
Martin Wagner rolls his sleeves;
he reaches back and grasps a rod, its width and heft exact
in his fist. He means to make what lasts.
Read more of Ellen Wise's poems in the Spring 2015 edition of the Delaware Poetry Review.