Found it.

Tried to throw it out; burn it; but Ms. Milfenstein stole it away. Now- feeling nostalgic- I found the thread on work-computer. Here she lives.

A curved spoke, unfolding slow beneath the body of machine, could tell a hundred thousand things you might believe.
'There once were forests, end for end, from here to Cathay, back again.
Cain't climb no trees, cain't split no bread,
We won't be rich until we're dead' The caliph of the spoke, it said.
It once saw grease, but then saw gravel, a judgement sure as robe and gavel-
Now it sits, and sits, and rots, and unfolds slow in vacant lots,
This slender bit of arm and gear, this Caliban,
this metal Queer-
Questing for that bit of real
it knew here once,
Inside a wheel.