The books I read—
the ADD books—
talk about
blurting and
losing things and
being impulsive and
taking risks and
appearing not to listen.

What they don’t talk about are
the nights I got up—
the nights I get up—
after everyone is asleep
and take out the glue and tape
and the box where I keep
all the jagged little pieces
of your life before me.

Of what you wanted to be and
what you might have been and
what you should have been
and
I try to put them back together.

I feel like a kid
who’s locked himself in the basement
and is trying to fix the lamp he broke
before mom and dad get home.
The work always goes badly.

I’m not even sure that I have all the pieces.
I chipped them away slowly over the years.
I saved the ones I could find,
but I’m scared that I don’t have them all.

And even the ones I have,

I really don’t know what to do with.