A puzzle sits on the table in the corner.
It is strangely flat,
And it has lots of holes, deep dark woeful irregular holes.
I don’t know where the damned thing came from, how it got here.
Or why it’s in that corner.
Every so often, when things get quiet,
I make a stab at it.
I spy a piece that looks promising.
I try it.
It yells at me: “I’m a soldier. I’ve a war to fight.”
It won’t fit.
Anywhere (yet I wonder).
The next one I try already has a job.
With one swipe of my strong arm I could wipe the whole thing off the table
Onto an empty, dusty floor. I’ve done that too many times and had to pick up the pieces.
Silly useless work.
The holes won’t go away. They beg. They cry out in hungry tones.
The sounds grow louder.
Sometimes they make me cry.
I just go on.