A day late and a dollar short – my father
put a spin on the failures
we stacked like cartons in the cellar.
They were always there, only
seemed to be forgotten, but a musty smell
would waft up the stairs each time
the door was opened, and anyway
we kept adding to the mess.
How old was I when I thought this through,
and how long has it been since
I thought of it at all? Long gone
from that house, I returned
when he died to pack things up,
and I kept looking, every time
I passed, at the corner where,
I’d had it in my head, were all
the things gone wrong. The breaks, tears,
and mutilations, were stacked
in a neat pile, all the way to the ceiling,
by then, spreading clear across the room.