Each board fits just so.
Imagine the patience,
the steady hand
and the eye that sees the detail
and how each thin floorboard fits into the next,
part of a larger creation
that merges color and stain and grain and artistry
into something so beautiful
that you walk on it,
artistry under your feet.
You feel almost guilty walking on it.
Nothing fits together so well in your life.
It is a collection of loose ends and ragged work,
of uncertainties, never nailed down,
always in flux, largely invisible,
art of a different kind, comedic depression,
gallows humor with a splash of paint
to disguise it as something
Let’s not kid ourselves.
There is no normal.
There is only real and not real
and a crazy gamut of things in-between,
mixing bowls of madness and some ever-changing
That’s what it is.
Craftmanship of the crazy,
you, me, all of us.
Coping and creating,
nail by nail, ephemera by ephemera,
Isadora Duncan and the carpenter, hand in hand,
even as we make it up.
About this poem.
If each of us has our own truth, what is the truth? What an interesting dance life is.