• the joy of imperfection •

Don’t get too organized on me,
if you please, love;
I like a little disorder with my chaos:
the muzzy, uneven in-distinction,
of the lawn that looks as if
it’s never known an edger,
or, at least not since
the heady days of Johnson’s Wax,
that came in yellow cans, with the impossible lids that required
a nickel coin, to open,
when of a Sunday,
the family unit, entire,
would turn out,
with plastic buckets, and busted sponges, and grins,
and used-up burp cloths and kitchen towels,
and a water hose,
to wash the Ford Galaxy Five Hundred, to perfection,
then, to smear, in circular motions, nice and thick,
and creamy yellow,
the Johnson’s on,
then to rub away,
with the burp cloths,
and kitchen towels, (and, of course,
the requisite ‘elbow grease’,)
to shine, shine, shine,
that baby, mommadaddy,
and baby Jesus, hallelujah,
Praise The Lord!
(’till you could see yourself,
in the pristine finish!)
the white crusty residue.
And me,
I always liked to leave a bit
un-rubbed, someplace onboard, that you couldn’t see, ’till you stood way back to admire your handiwork, which we always did,
just to hear, once again,
of a Sunday, the clamorous Unitarian unity of the family unit,
as we came together,
as one voice, unto the Lord,
of a Sunday,
to the smell of fried chicken,
and of mashed potatoes,
and black-eyed gravy
wafting from within
Momma’s kitchen,
with they shouted,
which they invariably did,
“Brother, you missed a spot!”
That’s the joy of imperfection.
Entirely.
~ Tim Burchfield
8/9/16

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