My past is a detailed map
of mosaic tiles; true picture
discerned only from a distance
up close, personal, the lines
of each piece go every which
way and intersect at odd angles
going nowhere and everywhere
Step back a bit and the picture
comes into cleaner, crisper focus
you see where you have been
where you are currently headed
But no matter how you try you
will never be able to get it folded
like it was, nicely creased, then
back into the glovebox properly
As it should be, as I am; colorful,
intricate, cartographer’s nemesis
not easily compartmentalized.
Ponderable polemics, poetic 