Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Rust

Corrosion finds me easy
reddish at the hinges
blushing, humiliation,
not that I am of iron
nor am I full of pride, but
why thoughts oxidize
why word pipes freeze
I cannot tell because
cobwebs over unused doors
block my view.

Still, I admit
for some slanted reason
my devotion’s intact
to my obstinate spine
fractured yet mended strong,
urging my hands
to scrub away this rust
as self-service
before burning out
and turning to dust.

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Prompt: rust, or the color rust