What could surpass
closing inherited tool boxes correctly,
how everything is snug,
and latched, somehow
eternal, after having
turned wood and metal
and hot glue
and tape
and newspaper
and flame
and magic marker
and lots and lots of screws
into stuff thats
gleaming, lacquered, or ready to offer use–
what could make a better life?
And it is less than perfect,
despite plans, or because of
inferior plans, and this
chair/bookcase/table joins the
island of misfit furniture
garaged and tarped and hidden
but right now looking at it
you have the eyes
of a mother gazing with blind love
at her clearly ugly baby. And
that is the best thing in the world.
