perfection reaches out to me
although it is always out of reach
perhaps a dream, but more
nightmare masquerading as dream
that’s the nature of perfection
it’s unnatural, a belief system
designed to systematically torture
those who invest in its belief
like religion or superstition,
both of which approach perfection
in their own imperfect way
something that might exist somewhere
other than here, an existence
in another place, but not this place
where everything is normal, or to say,
imperfectly normal, one way or another,
just another fact you have to accept
because not to accept it, the fact
there cannot be perfection anywhere,
might be as close to perfection
as we can get, it’s hard to say
but then I awake this morning
from a dream of hugging my son,
who hugs me back and says,
“daddy, my daddy,”
my son who has been dead
for over twenty years
gravity mocks me
with flying pies in the face
rakes meant for Sideshow Bob
new frost on concrete stairs
ladders not properly secured
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