The Holy Wheel

Day three was lording it over
a broken wire wheel that
had just two days prior
slept away a team of midnight
skunks rummaging.

An hour before, like Swiss Army
knives, the action was slick
and worrisome as a brigade
of nuns prayed over the
spokes, desperate for a sign.

Yesterday, the object was
examined by a flock of truants
amidst an afternoon search
and rescue mission. All of
them passed by, not noticing
the illuminate.

What seemed like minutes ago,
a bolt-action buried a strike
plate for the second time within
one of these minutes.

Five years ago, the wheel
belonged to a frame, intact
wrestling with metal, rocks
and water.