Thursday, March 3, 2022



The yard has been pointlessly mowed

The flower beds edged 

And the clippings all bagged

The empty sink gleams

Like polished aristocratic silver

And, once again, I have needlessly

Wiped the lint trap clean.

I can’t help it.

There is always something

To tidy up, to attend to.

You have to.

It’s the only way it makes sense.

Putting things back where they belong.

Everything changes

So fast. 

Something breaks. Another expires.

How can I expect to 

Organize the broken

Shards of my life

Into a tessellation

Of interlocking shapes 

If I can't even sweep

Up the smashed pieces

Of a dropped black glass?

The best I can do with these

Fragmented artifacts 

Is an unsightly mosaic

Of overlapping shapes and styles

Everything hinges on the layout

And the way the sunlight 

Catches the obsidian tiles 

Sometimes it catches them just right


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