The Bowl

Carvings on a bowl,
Low and barely an edge,
Ever so slightly curved, sitting on my bench.

Painful, wooden,
And giving me splinters,
As it challenges me in the dawn,
With little light,
It makes you think;
I’m not going down without a fight.

My father handing it down,
As he shows me the carvings that are deep,
I think,
“Where else has it been?” dreaming in my sleep.

My dreams clouded with nightmares of wood monsters,
Hunting me down,
Almost like a killer clown.

I wake up,
It is sitting on my bench,
And with my fists,
I clench.