so much of the world around me is
incomplete
by my own lazy hand
piles of books waiting for a home on a shelf
a basket of laundry washed
but never folded
half a dozen unfinished poems piled like
evidence of an almost effort to do something creative
I find comfort
in the half done chaos that is
my chosen environment
most days
I’m lucky to feel like I did anything measurable
aside from breathing and
taking up my designated space
but this is how I experience home
as the safe place to tuck my incomplete heart
until I can handle the art of putting it back together
home is the one place
I’m allowed to be the unfinished puzzle
allowed embrace the mess of random pieces I am
without explanation
or apology
incomplete [poem]
