I have a dusty two hole punch

That lives on my desk

And serves as a paperweight

When I look at its profile

I see the open mouth

Of a boa constrictor

Jaws unhinged and ready to swallow

The word “Sparco” is written across it

A dynamic name

That promises ignition and fire

To find its name I rubbed dust off of the part

Where its tongue would be

I place my hand gingerly atop its head

It is cool to the touch

A beautiful irony given its name

The springs of its jaw are rusty

I hesitate to bring up its rust

I am deeply embarrassed for rhyming

Dust with rust

I am already a bad poet

Without the help of awful rhymes

I do not wish to conceal

My honest badness

It is my way of staying true to something

That is unapologetic about what it is

We are aged and aging things

That serve some tiny purpose

But I humbly concede

That its purpose is clearer than mine

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