Imperfection

Look at me, world. What do I think I am doing?

Remembering words spoken, breathing blue sky

Sitting in a quiet of chunk, chirp, call, and whistle.

I said the wrong things to innocent people

I haven’t done enough of the right work

The fruit salad was cold, wet, sweet. The red hammock

Is swinging, waiting for me. The broken ceramic

Squares underneath draw new squares with their cracks.

My children have to live in this faulty world

I never ordered disinfectant wipes and now it’s too late

A lot of words spoken. A lot of things broken.

Soft blue and white stripes in the sky, remembered words

A body that has somehow carried me down the years.

This faulty world, what can I say? I have too much

It isn’t right. The system that is breaking . . .

The green panoramic quiet spread out beneath me

The chairs spilled conversational, red to blue to yellow

A lot of words spoken. But now, just the singing

I want to cry for my world. But so many are still alive

I want to cry for the beauty. Let’s do that

Whistle and chunk, hammock and chairs, blue and red

Things spoken, things broken, things sung and unsaid

The dusty screen, the light new green, the quiet.