STEVE MCORMOND

Out of Time

Every spring, we forget to expect it, 
the knife-sharpening truck’s bygone bell 
ding-dinging down the block, a clannish 
call to arms. We need a reminder 
how dangerous dull can be. Go now 
to the pegboard in the garage, collect 
grass clippers and pruning shears, 
drag the clay-caked garden 
spade from the hodgepodge of handles 
stood up in the cobwebbed corner. 
To the kitchen next. Hurry.
Gather carving knives and scissors, 
yank the big cleaver from its slot.
Bundle them all together in a tea towel. 
Bring everything that can make you 
bleed. We carry our complacency 
in our arms to the converted 
bread truck. A sharp knife is a safe knife,
stencilled in faded red letters. What else 
can we feed to the grinding wheel? 
The hockey skates hanging forlornly 
from their laces, the cat’s claws, 
or our eyeteeth, which blindly seek 
the next good bite.