Here and there
I pick up pieces of myself.
Half written sentences
dead in childbirth,
doors unlocked,
part open.
Everything scattered,
untidy,
in disarray.
I am a junk pile,
a room where things are dropped,
where I have no time to straighten,
to put away,
neaten.
But a little at a time,
passing through,
perhaps a poem will write itself,
a box be closed,
the floor swept up,
and I surprise myself,
wonder where I am,
how neat I’ve become!
Then,
I’ll throw a note to the floor,
crumpled in frustration,
acknowledge,
that nothing ever stays
as it should,
poems miss their mark,
love,
found in the morning,
is gone by afternoon,
and I am right back
where I started from.