My face in foamers' disarray,
Breaks on the sand so sparsely speckled,
Dancing polygons ever in collapse,
Like mirrors of a muddy thought,
Like all the breaking waves of unchecked hearts,
Why must it be so straight when I am else,
Why others shall I feel so cloudless clear,
Except on rainy days when I am poorly wet.

Quite the peculiar contraption, dare I note,
Found long in its rush beyond bespoke,
To steaming plates in every home,
To uncrinkle seams and lines that roam,
Upon the fabric 'till the metal scorch it into uniform.

Spent days clink as coins in weathered digits,
Oily rust stretched through the air encumbered,
I roll them on the clock's face worn,
They scratch at hands, but still at calloused pad
Above, pressed down to stop the noisy coins,

As hours roll to night,
The coins are scattered spent.