Wear

Wear
by Philip Booth


I hate how things wear out.


Not elbows, collars, cuffs;
they fit me, lightly frayed.


Not belts or paint or rust,
not routine maintenance.


On my own hook I cope
with surfaces: with all


that rubs away, flakes off, or fades
on schedule. What eats at me


is what wears from the in-
side out: bearings, couplings,


universal joints, old
differentials, rings,


and points: frictions hidden
in such dark they build


to heat before they come
to light. What gets to me


is how valves wear, the slow
leak in old circuitry,


the hairline fracture under
stress. With all my heart

I hate pumps losing prime,
immeasurable over-


loads, ungauged fatigue
in linkages. I hate


myself for wasting time
on hate: the cost of speed


came with the bill of sale,
the rest was never under


warranty. Five years
ago I turned in every


year; this year I rebuild
rebuilt parts. What hurts


is how blind tired I get. 


"Wear" by Philip Booth, from Lifelines: Selected Poems 1950-1999. © Viking, 1999.