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Benjamin Nash
Dutch Oven
I saw a woman
shape a piece of
silver into a spoon
with a hammer.
I would like to
believe that I was
made this way.
Some days I'm big
like a tanker
moving through
the Panama Canal.
On other days I
am small like this
Dutch oven that goes
to the youngest child,
sits in the fire in the
early morning and
turns into something
as the sun comes up.
I don't always sound
right like this old
cow bell that I have,
but I also hold a lot
of treasures like the
coffee cans used to
pick blackberries,
hold buttons, nails,
earthworms, black
and white photos,
or baseball cards.
I will wear out like
my old, red truck.
And then one day
in India they will
cut my old metal
into big pieces,
and there will be
a red glow and
I will start over.
Scratch Off
It is a cold,
orange sun in
the black trees,
wearing shorts
in the mountain
pass in summer
and walking
through snow,
driving in my
little, white
truck for the
first time,
David Bowie
on the radio,
and it was my
aunt with the
jammed up
fingers from
arthritis and
smoking the
cigarette with
her big smile,
the cat on the
sofa watching
soap operas
and shelling
some peas,
that took me
to the Czech
hall to play
a Bingo card,
and it is when
you win and it
makes you feel
good and you
buy another
at the grocery
store and you
think about the
bills you will
pay off and your
vacation to the
beach in Hawaii.
©2018 by Benjamin Nash
Benjamin Nash has had poems published in Blueline, Pilgrimage, The Cape Rock, Pembroke Magazine and other publications.
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