I call my hammer a paradox,
because on the days my arms feel like they will fall off,
are the very nights my family falls asleep with their stomach’s full,
which is to say,
a hard day’s night is more pleasing than painful.
Each morning, I pass this poster on the corner of a street,
a man, somewhat taller than me,
holding a hammer in one hand and his pride in the other,
and somehow, he manages to rub some pride off on me.
Over the course of a month,
I have learnt as much as I could about him,
trespassing on a culture that never invited me in.
Thor the Demigod they say, Thor the Avenger,
worthy because it is he who holds the hammer,
and I wonder,
if I were to call myself Thor of the streets,
just how much would people laugh at me?
But let’s be honest,
there’s a reason people like me can’t transgress into myths like these.
I’m no God or King or Mighty Warrior stepping out of a legend,
I’m the backstage crew in Thor’s story,
building and rebuilding all his wreckage.
So maybe, somewhere in this chaos,
I could be a stunt double,
not Thor on the streets,
but Thor lurking in a dimension that’ll never come into being,
and for now, in a world where hope breaks faster than bones,
I will settle for a chance to build and a hammer to hold.