A Work in Progress, or a Lost Cause?


Half-done, half-begun,
The edges hold, a fragile frame.
Many pieces snugly fit,
Yet many gaps remain.
I rush to place the missing,
Make them fit with all the rest.
This jigsaw life of mine—
A cardboard box, a jumbled mess.
Large sections done, the picture clear,
Though gaps appear each day.
Stolen pieces disappear;
I don’t know who to blame.
The box still holds the balance—
I’m not finished while there’s more,
Though the pile’s looking smaller
Than it ever has before.
I try to piece together what remains,
But they won’t fit.
I lay one down, then pick it up.
I wonder what I’ve missed.
Knobs and grooves all patterned,
Fancy curves that won’t align,
Each piece more a mystery now,
Perhaps they’re not all mine.
Did I borrow from another box?
Why don’t I recognize
The patterns in this picture,
The fragments of my life?
I fear I’ll never finish.
Pieces vanish from my grasp.
There’s not enough to work with,
Too much memory has elapsed.
What good is such a fragile frame
Whose middle cannot hold?
Scoop all that’s left back in the box,
And nail the coffin closed.