I have heard it said
That our souls have feathers.
I don’t know whether this is true
I am a magpie.
Of the ornate
The useless, some say.
I say unique.
Anything that piques my interest-
Old typewriter keys
The snagged and tangled rainbow of half-finished cross stitches-
Form may follow function,
But function far too often conforms
To a hollow practicality.
Which leaves it to the broken to reflect a
Reality, where every touch
Antique stores are for those who understand story.
The value of passing from hand to hand
Because the passed is always present.
These black and white plumes know nothing is black and white
Old or new
False or true-
Just an unrelated jigsaw puzzle of half-baked ideas
And unwanted opportunities.
So I say with conviction
This affliction you call an addiction
Is a simple predilection
Towards the omnipresent potential
Bound in all these possibilities.
So send me your tired.
Your broken, battered beat bent
Your “for sales as is”
Send me your casts of cast-asides
Trodden under foot
And unrepentant few
Who refuse to be corrected.
All of them bursting with
Like in the old grade school textbooks-
A child frozen at the top of a swing.
A stone, poised at the height of a fall.
A bird, wings outstretched
Ready to take flight.