approaching 57 by stealth and barely succeeding

today my mind works
with a mind of its own
with every sentence seeming to spark off
memories of parisian intersections
an arrangement of curtains
adolescent discussions
the tilt of a table
the line of a path through trees

jolts of remembrance
seeking to tie it all together
in some simple impossible package
something easy to carry
perhaps store under a seat
or in the overhead locker
not this unwieldy multi-pronged
awkwardly augmented life story
that threatens to
unbalance at any moment
and spill this mind of its own
all over itself
all over again

on this fragmentary morning
I rummage fitfully in my toolbox
so many things can be fixed
with water, soap
paperclips and gaffer tape
a little salt, lime juice
a kind word

deliver us from the evils
of an upturned cart
save the apples from bruising
like all others, this day will pass