Tessellation
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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