Anvils

by Allan Lake

Uncertain people, on occasion, 

gift me notebooks full of empty pages;

I have a drawer full of them but 

feign delight on each occasion.

They see a weathered man, 

cheap weathered notebook in hand 

and give him one made in Milano, 

that literally cost the earth, 

cover of calfskin, perhaps dyed 

blood red or turquoise for variety.

Merry birthday, again, scribbler!

If I were a man who walked along

with hammers tied to his ankles,

I’d be given gift-wrapped anvils.  

That’s how much something 

like love weighs.