My father was an engineer
My mother was a seamstress.
In time, between the pair of them
They taught me how to make a mess…
My brother shares the same distinct proclivity*
And each of us, if asked,
Would explain quite delicately,
“I know it’s in here somewhere
-I just need time to look!”
…Not the chaos and disorder
One might learn from a book,
Nor indeed from a manual explicit in detail,
Awash with folklore wisdoms
For when common sense can fail.
The years have passed,
My interests spread,
There’s parallel process
In my head…
Reams, notebooks, volumes filled
With endless witterings-at-will,
A subtle sideways strategy
To rally some kind of sanity;
Things I’ve cut from paper
Scattered round the place,
Visitors’ Access Restricted,
Somewhat lessening disgrace…
As one who learned not economics
But rather, domestic ergonomics,
Focus on shared household spaces’
Excluding visitors from other places’
Reduces labour while permitting mess
Protecting that space into which I digress,
A small, unruly sanctuary
Custom-crafted by and for me.
And here it is, my resting place
While contemplating fall from grace.
With Hope, Words and Scissors
My primary tools of trade,
Just *maybe* I can craft my way
Back to getting paid…?
*A self-taught watch-maker by trade, my brother’s private space is possibly the greatest testament of all: a kind of wasps-nest of activity with a hole in the middle for a chair. Rumours about that Lord Lucan may well be somewhere under his bed…