The Tripod
This tripod has been around.
The box was dusty, shoved
in a corner of the attic.
Three legs.
At least there used to be.
I see the joints
where repairs were made.
The first leg is wooden but
the break is new.
The break is clean;
smooth to the touch.
No splinters prick my fingers.
What tales could that leg
tell from its long years?
I know a few.
The rest spilled out when
the damage was done.
Irreversible loss.
The second leg is newer but
Broken. It happened six years ago.
An unexpected slap to my soul.
The plastic edges are jagged
and sharp. Blood appears and
an old scar opens.
The last leg is the young.
The joint is soldered
strong, yet there is chipping.
What good is a tripod
with only one leg?
What could it possibly accomplish?
There are pictures to take
And memories to make
But a one-legged tripod?
I turn away to bandage my finger.
