by Sandra McPherson
That they have been in the wall.
That they’ve been yanked out.
That that made them gray and hoary.
That some skin of the wall came with them.
That men squeaked them out.
That I could not throw them out.
That they look like money,
A pile of change.
That they came from the second story —
The men stalked back and forth before my window.
Nails — we turn the tables on you —
You think you’re secure,
That you secure us,
But there’s a claw coming after you
And you’ll come out bent,
Your head able to look at your toe.
Let’s be blunt:
You’ve had it. You’re of no use.
But you’re awfully pretty
In a Brutalist way.
Sandra McPherson is the author of twenty poetry collections. Her honors include four Pushcart Prizes and for appearances in the Best American Poetry series. Her collection, The Year of Our Birth (Ecco, 1978) was a finalist for the National Book Awards. She taught a combined twenty-seven years at UC Davis and the Iowa Writers Workshop.