George Bernard Shaw
had no idea what the laundry room was for.
While writing 'Pygmalion'
he looked somewhat tatterdemalion.
After 5 hours of flying and sitting
we display an assorted redundancy
a sanctioned paraphernalia.
Rumpled files of sartorial inelegance
squeezed shoulder to shoulder.
A night flight,
the tube is wheezing tainted air.
We are a junkyard for travelers
moving not by our own motion
but brought together in economy class
because we are all out of other options.
The French have terms
for these sleeping arrangements:
'Maisones de flop', or 'asiles de nuit'
only we are airborne,
we sleep with our eyes open
aching to be somewhere
before a threadbare daylight exposes
us to our own bleary inspection.
Two halves of imperfection--
kaleidoscope emotions and traits
fractured and tumbled as
sea glass on the shore--
amalgamated into symmetry
by the Master’s hands
with the pulchritude of stained glass.
A perfection of cohesiveness
despite the flawed edges, cracks,
and inelegance of life.
The cohesive nexus of family,
sustained through inadequacies, and deficiencies,
avowed by the broken that fit
according to His plan
in a splendor of imperfect completeness.
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