Imperfection

I am falling in love

with my imperfections

The way I never get the sink really clean,

forget to check my oil,

lose my car in parking lots,

miss appointments I have written down,

am just a little late.

I am learning to love

the small bumps on my face

the big bump of my nose,

my hairless scalp,

chipped nail polish,

toes that overlap.

Learning to love

the open-ended mystery

of not knowing why

I am learning to fail

to make lists,

use my time wisely,

read the books I should.

Instead I practice inconsistency,

irrationality, forgetfulness.

Probably I should

hang my clothes neatly in the closet

all the shirts together, then the pants,

send Christmas cards, or better yet

a letter telling of

my perfect family.

But I'd rather waste time

listening to the rain,

or lying underneath my cat

learning to purr.

I used to fill every moment

with something I could

cross off later.

Perfect was

the laundry done and folded

all my papers graded

the whole truth and nothing but

Now the empty mind is what I seek

the formless shape

the strange off center

sometimes fictional

me.