The What Follows Rejection Poem

Sunshine avoids me today,
but the coffee grinder
asks if I can come out to play.
So I do.
But it is no toy
and now my finger is bleeding.
Clearly I am without a clue
my friend says,
sewing my fingertip back on.
I flex the digit repeatedly —
good as new.
I thank her for kindness,
her timing,
and, most of all,
for offering me that
thing no less practical
than a screwdriver.