“The jewelery box lid is broken.”
“I can fix it,” I told her, years ago.
I can fix it. I just haven’t done so.
The top of the box is a painting
of Boston Common on a snowy day
in another time, people walking
across the park at twilight.
The four pieces that framed it
lie on top of the dresser, waiting
to be remembered into wholeness.
I walk by every morning without
the glue or the intention to fix
what is broken. Now I have gone
so long that broken seems normal.
How did I become accustomed
to a life of unfinished and disrepair?
I can fix it; I just haven’t done so.
*This is a response to the Poetry Party at Abbey of the Arts.