Deahna Fumarol

There is something so
familiar about your stance;
poised and critical, you

could hold up among the marbles,
in textbook contrapposto,
deconstructing their load-bearing

designs. You see it in its place
on the wall, the new model
power drill at Sears, and you

pick it up, test its grip, so
analytical in your faded jeans.
Derrida at the Louvre,

resolving the final verdict
of the drill you hold in your
made-for-drill-holding hands.

Can you see it beaming
from your tool belt, or
will you scoff? You set it back

on its pedestal, sidle up to
the heat guns, and one can only
imagine how you will articulate

to the sawdust-covered elite,
over bottles of something
domestic, the below-par design

of a trusted brand, and how
they just don't make 'em
like they used to.

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