They keep Ideal on the top shelf
I stand on my tip toes, I still can’t reach
it takes a stack of chairs, topped with a pile of books
it takes stealth, so they don’t catch me at it
even at the top, it evades my grasp
I push against the cabinet
sweat and shove to knock it down
but it won’t budge
I try throwing things: big, little, light, heavy
Always I miss the mark
I try this for a long time
Someone passes by and laughs
so at last I walk away
Later, I saw Ideal on the street
passing by so close I could have
grabbed on to its coat tails
I noticed chips in its gilded veneer
ragged ends to its fine sleeves
I noticed my view had changed
Ideal walked on without a glance
I turned back to where I was headed
flipped up my collar
kept going my own way
This poem from my Medium archive was a response to Samantha Lazar’s Sky Collection Prompt #18, galvanized by the quote
“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Margaret Atwood.
Perfection has trolled me my whole life, like a shadow that I don’t want to turn around and face. I try to run away, but it’s always there!
The Poetry Patio 