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.