|My dust covered self, after a long Sunday spackling and sanding.|
by Tom Atkins
Ella Fitzgerald plays on the stereo
as you sip cold Pinot Grigio from a paper cup
and gaze the room
in the bright afternoon sun.
It is finished, months of work complete,
the walls glowing gold in the light,
each crack and hole patched and painted.
The rich hickory and cypress floors shine, rescued
from generations of neglect.
You look and see the bend in the plaster
where it was separated from the lathe,
an imperfection left, a reminder
that imperfection has it's own beauty,
in walls, in life and in love,
and you smile more deeply
than those who see you can know.