by Leonard Nathan
Down in the dark cave
lives a poor family of keys,
a black comb with two teeth missing,
and a skinny knife, sharp as a pimp.
Every so often,
one of these is jerked up
blind into the air, used, then dropped
back down, none the wiser.
They make up little stories
to explain this, except the knife—
it lies on its side, rigid and folded
into itself, like a knife.
—from Carrying on: New and Selected Poems (Pitt Poetry Series)
