I hate it that I am so sporadic
inconsistent, not persistent,
no straight-ahead-in-a-line-to-the-finish.
I’m distracted, side-tracked
stops and starts, mis-matched piles,
can’t remember the whats and whens.
No perfect files, labeled loudly
I A M I N C O N T R O L.
I feign at neatness, completeness escaping me
ever in process, a mess in the making.
Oh, why can’t I be like those orderly others,
those finishers perfectly packing their lives in a box,
the rank and file, who smile
at me, “Oh poor thing, she’s so erratic.”
Well—
I am resigned to the wholeof me,
my hits and misses
marking a difference,
scattering joy, seeds abound.
I cannot (do not) go in a straight line—
Random A to B then on to Z.
(Sequences only happen on a test.)
And life is an actual emergency
(not a test).
I like this formula better:
A cubed to D once plus E squared
then back to A and jump to N, then
who-knows-what?
I’m the only one
who can spell my life.
——-
from my files, circa 2008. still true