Friday - Practice
I am well practiced at the Art Of walking around in the dark Watching the possibilities of the day Dissipate as so much summer heat Rising off the blackened road And the coolness of the night sink in While gazing into other people's lives Seeing minute differences that gather questions In the questioning of the back of the mind Am I happy the way I live Should I be storing my clothes in other ways And I, I, who have hated every moment Every breath and fiber of my life Am now punch drunk in love With every question every dirty dish Polluting my kitchen sink with requirements And every silly random act of kindness along the way Reminding me of my mother's saying Practice does not make perfect Only perfect practice could make perfect and we are everything but perfect But as the moon rises to greet us Those who pay attention to its quirky smiles And I giggle about trying to find the one mistake In every Turkish rug hand-lovingly-made The wind sighs and whispers It do...