#sharpeningmyskills

and he’s looking for the pocket knife

he lost as a child.  He had been searching now

for so long, it seemed silly to keep going,

but he was persistent, and this place was his last hope.  

  It was a dull and rusted

razor, who tipped him off

to the possible whereabouts,

while recounting whimsically,

for the hundredth time, his fondest cuts

and magnificent bloodletting.

  Now, listening to the butter knives

guffawing at their own jokes—he

hated how there was no nuance

to their talk; they were blunt

but never came to the point—

he scanned the room, expectantly.

  He watched the pairing knives at the bar,

staring longingly at their reflections

each in the other

unaware of the chef’s knife

looking to refill their drinks.

  The cleavers were clever

but big, unwieldy and ultimately, untrustworthy,

and if he was honest with himself

a bit intimidating.

  He could feel the steak knives circling

menacingly at the back

as the butterfly knives

flitted around the spilled absinthe and

honey on the tables.

  The surgical knives

off in the corner, solemnly staring

into their drinks

reflecting on their incisions and indecisions

while the vegetable knives

meditated on the underlying oneness

of this diced and fragmented world.

   The bread knives,

tall and serrated, talked

of brotherhood and community

hoping to bring God to the many

here who’d been living so long

on the edge.

  By the pinball machines,

a group of old pocket knives

and switchblades practiced Doo-Wop

their blades oxidized and grey.

He moved slowly to where they were singing

Inquired slowly, about

his old Winchester pocket knife

with the abalone handle,

  broken to learn

that it had not been seen

at the bar in quite some time.

  He turned slowly to leave,

grabbing the newest looking switchblade

in the group,

sticking it in his pocket—

it would provide some support tonight,