Every day
I pick up my
attitude
–a discarded crumple on the floor—
duct taping away the dust bunnies of depression
from its crinkles,
scrubbing w a really old toothbrush
at the pain stains that leak
into its folds no
matter how hard I cap these pointed blues each morning
. . .
pinning the holes of loss
w old-fashioned safety pins
. . .
and shaking out the whole,
I concentrate on the brighter colors
–that defy repeated wear
and complement both sun & rose–
I rise,
(then)
and dress,
(now)
and decide
(also)
that the small details at worn cuff
are admirable,
–and lend to the pattern
at the heart of my outlook–
that there are yet beautiful buttons
there, too,
and the fringe at fray
is almost exotic
–tres Par’ee–
and squaring shoulders beneath unpadded
point of view
I step out
–noticing just how many of us
are wearing the same
outfit.
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