I held an icon damaged by sun, water, fire and time.
It was cracked, faded, warped.
I could barely make out the eyes, vaguely reminiscent of
I couldn’t think who.
Some Western hero,
A faded star of tv, silent pictures, vaudeville, or
Maybe someone from space,
a cosmonaut we weren’t taught about.
Someone so forgotten there is
no Wikipedia entry.
What had it looked like, in ages old.
What had it accomplished?
What had it been made to accomplish?
What was its destiny?
I hefted the icon in my hand.
It was light as a model airplane made of balsa,
light as a firefly
Or like a bubble from when we blew bubbles
in the front yard.
So light it might not even have existed.
I looked at it.
It looked back at me.
I liked it, clicked it,
Some old paint and gold leaf flecked off on my hand,
Revealing old wood underneath.
i saw its grain.
I saw a ring from
The original tree.
What do you say to something beloved that has been broken?
What reparation can I bring?
me, who can’t even drive a nail straight
or glue a wing on a Spitfire Mk VIII
without getting my fingers stuck together
or getting giddy with fumes.
Bruh, I say. Bruhhh.
It doesn’t talk back.