The Poetry of the Broken

My God is the God of broken ladders, many rungs are missing and I don’t have the skill to mend them. My usual recourse for the unfixed is to pen a poem about the imperfect beauty of the unfinished and damaged. Breakfast is just for seating two, there's another broken stool propped up against a wall - a silent testament to 'found poetry' that needs only a missing meaning. I am not useless, my wife says I am not useless, but she never suggests furniture that comes as a flat pack anymore, and she often asks more adept visitors to bring their own tools. My God is a God of broken rungs, I shall keep striving to fix them, keep my toolbelt greased, as I hammer images and metaphor together with yet more split nails.