Crooked teeth are quite charming,
as are aging hands —
— the tooth that kicks out of the regiment,
and marches to another cadence.
— the knuckles that read like a captain’s map,
with rivers and trails and ravines.
I’m fond of the slanting windowsill,
of the mismatched button,
of the hinge askew.
And
The unmade bed,
the scar above his eye,
the freckles on her elbow,
the pop in the stained oak floorboard.
The rip in the lampshade,
the rust,
the scuff,
the curl that won’t stay in the ponytail,
the paint under the artist’s fingernails,
the chips in the blue China platter,
the small, funny candy in the box.
Shh.
They are speaking, saying:
Don’t wait
for a flawless picture,
Of course, it might never come.
And what if you waited and then you found
that perfect
was dull
after all.
