Temperament

Listen to Jim Powell read this poem.


When the hammer blow of the hydraulic ram
slammed down on its head
to drive it square in the square hole
through the tie plate
anchoring rail to crosstie

a minute imperfection on one edge
of this steel spike snagged
on the lip of the aperture—
recalcitrant;
obstinate—and the ram's force

wrenched it awry. It skewed and twisted, jammed
the gears of the machine,
seized up the works. Unwedged, extracted,
tempered steel clawed
and dented, bent improbably,

it was cast aside on the crushed rock
ballast bed where I found it
and brought it home, cold in the hand.
Now it lies
on this page for a paperweight.

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