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    “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.

    Peace,
    Milton

    *This is a response to the Poetry Party at Abbey of the Arts.

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    9 COMMENTS

    1. What a beautiful poem. The last stanza really hit home.

      How did I become accustomed
      to a life of unfinished and disrepair?
      I can fix it; I just haven’t done so.

      Fixing things can get to be a wearisome job. Seems like one thing gets fixed and another is broken waiting for repair. We must persevere.

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