HAMMER AND NAILS

by Alan Britt

Hammer, yeah, that’s an archetype
as basic as the wheel,
and its nails like bullets
entering open-heart surgery
like the sudden spray
of 50-caliber rounds
making their rounds through
otherwise paranoid Iraqi neighborhoods,
nails that turn families into foe,
nails that leap from the shoulders
of cool-walking, ego-imprisoned
Americans strolling the arctic curl
of a question mark,
nails that forge
a support staff,
as you no doubt know,
one that resembles a question mark
supporting the remainder
of its decrepit weight
on an exhausted vertebrae
of faith.

Such is the fate of question marks.

I can tell you this much, though;
nails have no place in open-heart surgery
any more than Fortunate Sons
do forcing the earth
off its barbaric axis.