There was no sleight-of-hand here, only tools
to fit each joint to joint.
They are a comforting weight in my palm,
as I grip and clasp together
the disparate parts of this poem.
It could be a single broken metaphor
that needs replacing,
but sometimes it all falls apart
and no amount of spit or grease can save it:
the words themselves have eroded,
their edges dulled by overuse.
After a complete overhaul,
an exhaustive remaking,
my muscles ache
but it is a good pain.
So it is with better poems.
prompt: steal a first line; from Alfredo Navarro Salanga's Voices Prompted by the News, a Staple Food.