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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It was the best of tines; it was the worst of tines. It lay, distraught, in silence on the road. He came around the curve, saw it too late to swerve; the puncture caused his front tire to explode. A silver-plated fork, her lineage was perhaps York; a heritage of which she’d long lost track. Her dreams as ballerina, faded like her patina; now, pits and scars festooned her neck and back. Her mind played back her fall, the horror of it all; despairing life, she hoped it would end soon. At first, upon a dare, burlesque with the flatware, to end in shame, pimped by a plastic spoon. Not wanting to be saved, she’d crawled out on the paved, and waited for the crush when all went flat. But in that car’s careening, her life took on new meaning; an unexpected blowout saw to that. For there, just up ahead, a kitten, surely dead, was spared as the man slammed upon the brake. Once stopped, he now could see her mewling pitifully; he gently scooped her up to calm her shake. Then, trying not to swear, he wrestled with the spare and stowed the blown-out tire in the boot. That’s when he saw her, mangled, her tines all at odd angles, a fork that placed them all upon this route. And so with certain care, he also placed her there beside the kitten, on the padded seat. Now straightened out and polished, she watches York demolish the breakfast that her tines scooped out to eat. ————— for the Metrical Tale Poetry Contest sponsored by Hilo Poet written on 01/03/2022
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