To recycle cans
They say you must
First remove all labels

The paper must be soaked
In order to release it
From the glue

If one does not apply warm water
The paper will stick to the tin
And the label will not come off
Clean

I stand at the sink
Thinking of my past
All the labels I tried to remove
Without bathing myself first
In the warm water of true change

And I realize I am truly
Not prepared for proper
Recycling.

And that the kitchen is no place
For full immersion
A complete soak

And so I walk up the stairs
Stripping off the layers
Arrive at the bath
Begin to fill the tub

Hesitate

Are there labels I wish to keep?
And if not the whole
Perhaps those little spots of glue
That indicate (to me at least)
How I have lived?

Or am I truly prepared
To be washed so clean
That the metal of me
Can be melted down
Mixed with that of others
And made into something
New and much more
Useful?

I dip my toe
This water of change
Feels incredibly hot
Might even burn

And then I realize the molten process
Of real recycling makes this water
Seem benign

I look across the imminent ages
Away from my gluey self
Into the eyes of the scalding future

Am I not useful as I am?
I ask, hearing
The song of the crucible
Murmuring behind your eyes

“Yes,” you answer
(kind future that you are)
“There is always something
To be done with a clean,
Empty tin.”

But I know the limitations
Of kindness
Against the full possibilities of
All-out-truth.

Melted and mixed
I might become any number
Of new tools:

A scalpel for a surgeon
The hearing part of a stethoscope
(I have always been a good listener)

I might become a gear
That drives a pump
That filters blood
From sickness to health

Or a nail driven
Into a rebuilt house
(not a hand, this time thank you)
That warms a family from the street

And as I realize the vast number
Of useful products I just might become
A whole new book of poetry arrives
Asking to be written

Each bit of metal me a potential boon
Shaped by knowing hands and installed
For another lifetime of simple function

I will not write that book
Of a hundred thousand poems
About this “maybe” me

Instead I plunge my foot
Into the bubbling hot water
Let my body slip
Into its cleansing steam

Immersed so deep
That only the tip
Of my nose cuts the surface
(Like Achilles even I have limits)
And wait for the first step
In this new journey to begin

I feel them leave
These bits of glue
Formerly known as me
They bob around my face
A flotilla of incidents
Stark and humbling misinterpretations
Realities

I hear you so far away
And yet really in the next room
A month or so away
Humming the song that starts the engine
That heats the coal
That begins to warm the crucible

And I smile releasing
The last bubble of the old me
(a tiny song that pops soundlessly)

And the very last image
Comes from an old move about Oz
But I am not the wizard
Or the lion
Or even a witch

I am the tin man
Come for recycling

I am the tin man
Do with me what you will

I am the tin man

I know
you have
my heart