I can be a mess—an inkwell spilling
Over a wooden tabletop
That had thoughtfulness
Spread over pages but now they stick to
The sanded finish.
Fibers and words
Distressed—I know to reach for
Fresh paper and ink;
Some days are better
Than when I mourn the eyesore,
But I can still make with my fingertips
And the jumble becomes unnoticeable.