Fidget

My soul is clad in an ill-fitting suit
and sits on a splintered chair,
I've no complaint about who I am
but only for what I wear.
My fleshy garments cumbersome,
they don't move with ease
I can arrange it to effect,
but it won't do what I please.
 The splintered chair I sit upon
'why sit there?' you may ask.
This dainty chair was all they had
It just wasn't up to the task.
I've made adjustments to improve
My life inside my skin
I try to dress it up without
and find comfort within.
the padding acts as ballast
Lest I try to float away,
my work on earth is not yet yet done,
at least not yet today.
and some discomfort I'll endure
But you can bet on it
next time 'round I will be
A bit more choosy where I sit.

Beth Keener

 

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