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A pair of scissors lying in a drawer

I’m feeling old and my emotions are blunted.

I can’t remember the last time she hunted

for me to cut up her fabric or paper

into small pieces that she would use later.

Memo notes, poetic quotes or even to wrap a gift;

some perfume, a scarf that she so loves to give.


To her daughters and friends, for a special birthday,

or to send to someone in a third world country.

As I lie in this drawer with the corkscrew and knives,

she is walking about getting on with her life.

If I stay here much longer without being used

the rust will set in, and I don’t want to lose

my place in this drawer, her heart or her hands.

I’m her one pair of scissors just now as it stands


Please use me I beg you and don’t let me rust

I don’t want to die and be left in the dust

of the dump where all the dead scissors lie,

when their owners reject them when they go out and buy

a new pair of scissors as seen on TV.

Sharpen me and I’ll be the best I can be .



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