.
There are those, I suppose,
Whose lives roll out like
Fitted sheets upon an antique bed.
Neatly tucked about the corners,
All covered with an elegant duvet.
Needlepoint cushions, and perhaps a cat
Lie artfully arranged at the headboard.
Mine is more a patchwork quilt.
Laughter and tears stitched together
By scattered threads of memory.
Far more pillows than necessary
Cushion the lingering lumps.
And a dog's sleepy eyes wink down
At distant unfinished edges.
.
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