If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



SC



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Saturday, October 15, 2011

Coming to Grips


So it's plan A again,
a quiet place under the big white oak out back.
I can see no other way to rid myself
of the clutter I’ve accumulated.
(Only so much can be given to charity, burned.)
And too,
I’m a fad.
I have no enduring value.
As things are, I’d never be a mantelpiece long—if at all.
At some point I’d have to be dragged from the attic, discarded.
I’ll spare you the bother.                      

3 comments:

  1. A beautiful poem; but I do hope you don't really feel that disposable. You're very important, Steven :)

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  2. Strangely plans A always seem both the most efficient and the least interesting and satisfactory...

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  3. I know what you mean... funny how as time goes by we store so much stuff (crap) in our heads.. we all need someone to invent a brain vacuum that sucks it all clean and fresh every so often.. so we have that invigorating childlike enthusiasm back of not knowing that everything doesn't turn out the way we wanted.. Oh to be a kid again...

    and by the way... those trestle table are amazing pieces of craftmanship..

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