The Trowel

Her trowel was overworked.  It kept
rooting-up boxes out of old ground,
she kept reading the labels and looking inside,
she saw too much.  That looking 
reopened cuts
repurpled bruises
but still she kept the trowel handy
always cleaned it after use.

It used to gleam at her, sitting there
watching before she started work.
She'd glare back feeling just as
tarnished and buckled as its metal
and she'd yell, silently, because her
boxes kept multiplying underground
where no-one could see except her.

She couldn't help looking inside 
to find why she was
but she looked in and looked in
and still didn't understand.

She couldn't make up her mind whether
to keep the trowel busy with its findings
or clean her hands.
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