There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship. I cannot escape the feeling that I have been made for a purpose, but I cannot find it. - Letters to Felice, Franz Kafka
Long time now
rolling loose
in the bottom of the box.
You know it’s there.
Just don’t know
what job it’s for.
People talk about purpose
like it comes with a manual.
Never worked that way
where I’m from.
Mostly it’s alarms before sunrise,
cold floors,
coffee strong enough
to stand a spoon in,
and work that needs doing
whether you feel like it or not.
You learn quick
the world doesn’t pause
so you can figure yourself out.
Something breaks.
You fix it.
Something’s heavy.
You lift it.
Something needs doing -
you get to it.
Still, every now and then
that thought comes back:
maybe I was built
for something specific,
like a wrench
in the bottom of the box
made for one stubborn bolt.
Trouble is
nobody marked the bolt.
But I’ve been around long enough
to know this:
most things worth anything
don’t show up finished.
They get built slow...
day after day,
callus by callus.
Maybe purpose
ain’t one grand job.
Maybe it’s just
sticking around long enough
to be useful.
Holding the ladder.
Keeping the lights on.
Fixing what you can reach.
And maybe someday
I’ll find the bolt
I was meant to turn.
But if I don’t -
maybe that’s alright.
Because every day
something small
still needs fixing.
And most days
that’s enough.
Just lying there
in the bottom of the box,
ready
if somebody reaches in
looking for the right tool.
GBS jr
2014
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