Ode to a Rake

i feel as if
i am a rake
whose teeth are partially missing
chipped away
one by one from
the hidden rock
the occasional underground pipe
the careless pull of my wielder
my bones are
the cracked handle
splintered
creaking
between
the weight of the world and
the person using me

when they are done i am stored
in the shed
beside
a shovel and an old axe
all growing beards
of rust