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THE REAL IRON MAN

He has an iron hand,
full of wait of coal
burnt almost like a cave man
lifting the weight of a person’s dirt
and pressing it over to its core
so the next time an ironed
shirt is worn, it smells of sun
charged like solar flares, flat
creases transfigured into sweaty
white vest, coal vanished now,
the iron hand tired but awaiting
a new day of the weights of its world

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