This has proven an imperfect place to work
on the art.
The noises and the smells are distracting
as is the incessant mess.
The weather – both seasonally hot and cold
in varying degrees –
get in my way
when I least want them to.

And when I say mess
you think you understand the word
but you may not imagine the huge
undulating mounds that quiver and pass
and the life forms within that seem friendly
but defy identification.

It’s a strange world in which I reside
a world where imagination holds sway
and brings fresh breath to my thoughts.
I do not get a moment’s peace
with odd folk constantly in my way
asking how I am,
wondering where I’ve been.
It’s a madhouse, I tell you!
Insanity reigns!

And that, perhaps
is its finest imperfection,
the cracks where the light comes through.
For from the madness of my home
is this how I renew?
Yes. It’s how I am most true.