Revision

Some are irreparable.
It’s as if you snatched them from the bargain bin
at Eddie’s junkyard by the train tracks.
Still, you try the tried and true
Elmer’s glue and duct tape,
shims and string—double knotted.

You ask your friends’ advice.
They gawk and stare
and try to sound hopeful.
They talk of home remedies
vapor rub and sitz baths,
little yellow capsules
that helped their cousin’s cousin
cure one just like yours.

Cannily, you set it aside,
in that hard to reach cupboard in the kitchen,
as if proximity to Campbell’s chicken soup
could cure its commonplaceness,
dispel its warts, heal its wounds,
and make it sing with joy and sorrow.

Too often,
there is nothing for it.
You dress it in all the finery you can find,
pancake on your sister’s makeup,
lipstick and a new do,
and push it out the door.
Gamely, it limps along beside you
trying so terribly hard to smile,
in the judgement of the light of day.