Damaged Goods.

I am damaged goods.
I am dented cans
sold at a discount.
I am meat,
two days shy
of it's expiration date.
I am one ply tissues,
and wilted flowers.

I am the shattered remnants
of a drivers side window,
somewhere on Patterson Park.
The brittle shards
and geometric jagged remains,
lost beneath carpets
and under seats;
forgotten until felt
and remembered,
under bare feet on their way to the ocean.

I am tiny machinery
delicately blown apart,
with  the breath of the words,
"Love lost."
And it would take the skill
and acumen
of a Swiss watchmaker
to reproduce and replace
all the tiny bits of me
that have been lost and taken away.

I am a puzzle.
And good souls
keep taking away the last and best pieces.
Their intentions may be good,
but I am tired of looking behind armoires
and in the backs of drawers,
hoping to find my completeness.

Perhaps,
I am not not meant to be complete?

Perhaps,
I am best broken?

Perhaps,
to be me,
is to give up all the little pieces?
And accept
the holes and voids
of my picture.

Some of my finest work
has been eulogies
for friends and loved ones
lost.
Some of my finest work
has been homes
that I will never feel the joy of living in.

Perhaps,
being me,
is never being me?
But being everything
to everyone?

Tonight,
I am fixing the broken walking cane
of my neighbor,
the war hero.
He is 93.
He brought me his cane to me
because he knew
I was just the man
to put it right again.

And I will.
I have already
formulated a plan,
and amassed the materials,
to get him back up on his feet
and walking again.

But, what of me?

I stand out on the rocky edge,
of the silky black night ice flow,
just beyond my back door;
and I listen to the never ending
hum and whir,
ebb and flow,
of the complete machinery
out beyond my reach.
And I dream,
that I might be.

But...

My machine is broken.
I am damaged goods.
And I am okay with this.