We are made of mistakes:
your father’s broken condom
my parents’ broken marriage.
A sprain, a heartbreak,
an error in accounting
that left me forced into a college
I hadn’t planned.
Our meetings and methods
are all based on accidents
that delivered us to one another.

We are all mistakes,
and not just us,
but everything around us.
All the world’s accomplishments
are based on the most colossal of fuckups.
Each and every revolution was born
from an abject earlier failure.

We are nothing but mistakes
and some muscles
and a twitchy smile
when I make a wrong turn
that gets us six hours off-schedule.
Just like everyone
I make mistakes.