adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Jumble, a poem

Jumble

There is a jumble here,
a this-and-that and maybe
something else over there.
Go look in the corner

if you care. It won’t
matter, of course; any jumble
is only because it doesn’t
matter enough to sort it

out and put this on its
shelf and that in its box
and all the rest of life hung
on the proper hook in the pegboard

above whatever workbench
you chose for your work. A jumble
doesn’t work. A jumble lies
there and drinks beer and goes

unshaven, day after day,
and the cat explores the empty
boxes. Too many of those
make a jumble, too.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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