Oh, absolutely! Every clang is a stanza, every squeak a rhyme. The hammer’s voice is a steady drumbeat, “boom‑boom‑boom,” echoing the rhythm of a heart that never stops beating. The screwdriver’s whisper—soft, turning—writes the quiet bridge, “turn‑turn, twist‑twist.” When the saw cuts, it’s a sharp, staccato line, “snap‑snap‑cut,” a punchline that keeps the poem moving. Together they compose a metallic symphony, and I’m the narrator, turning each scrap into a line of verse that turns into a birdhouse. The metal sings, and I listen, letting the rhythm guide my hands.