An old fashioned game sits on the table,
all wood and levers and faded artwork,
waiting for someone to see it
as more than novelty,
more than a museum piece.
It is sturdy.
Lacking in flash and lights and sound,
utterly lacking in upgrades.
Your hand caresses the wood frame,
worn by time and use.
There are cracks in the wood,
repairs made with glue and clamps and patience.
You can feel the generations in the patina,
aware of your own strange simplicity,
how you have, like the game,
been reduced to basics.
That is enough.
Enough for you at least,
and the few who value things broken and repaired
over the new,
who understand often the repair
is stronger than what came before.
About this poem
This morning I was talking with a friend, about being stronger for having come through trials, even when the trials broke me for a time. It brought to mind a lot of my broken times, a litany of them that paraded through my head for a time, and I realized how much a theme in my life and poetry that idea of restoration plays.
I’m OK with that.