I have a dusty two hole punch
That lives on my desk
And serves as a paperweight
When I look at its profile
I see the open mouth
Of a boa constrictor
Jaws unhinged and ready to swallow
The word “Sparco” is written across it
A dynamic name
That promises ignition and fire
To find its name I rubbed dust off of the part
Where its tongue would be
I place my hand gingerly atop its head
It is cool to the touch
A beautiful irony given its name
The springs of its jaw are rusty
I hesitate to bring up its rust
I am deeply embarrassed for rhyming
Dust with rust
I am already a bad poet
Without the help of awful rhymes
I do not wish to conceal
My honest badness
It is my way of staying true to something
That is unapologetic about what it is
We are aged and aging things
That serve some tiny purpose
But I humbly concede
That its purpose is clearer than mine