Fingers reach and bend.
Please pass the paste,
because I'm on the mend.
"Make haste!"
You want to say.

Your cursive cure
on a rusty pole.
Summons full of allure
you dole
them out like pennies.

There was a structure
here at one time:
a mechanism, an aperture,
a gear, a chime.
Now, it all pounds to dust.

If you must,
push me fast over the cusp.