Sonnet 11
The broken people love their patchwork man
and dig him up on anniversary,
resew him just enough so he can stand
and let him lead them through patchwork symphony.
The patchwork man is much more patch than work,
and time has set alight unworkmanship,
limbs dragging lower wher good thread was shirked,
one loose shoe left behind after a trip.
The patchwork has nothing left to say,
so we sew on our words we think are his,
praise be to all his broken toys at play,
every letter used to justify their lives.
The patchwork man is still but still he'll lead,
the broken into getting love they'll need.
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