Our Most Endearing Fault
I will say this for the human race:
almost all of us love a few ugly things.
Not just pottery that enshrines
small whorls of fingerprint: charmed
cobra in clay basket–or chick, neck
stretched toward the rumor of worms;
ceramic earrings heavier and brighter
than wadded bubblegum but otherwise
And not just the items victim
to use, to time. To care still for a careworn
thing is not a feat of love.
No, I mean
the chartreuse sweater vests no sweet aunt
made or bought or bequeathed, those
sleeveless knits whose glow bestows
jaundice on the wearer. I mean
the DIY eagle atremble on the hood
a HEMI rumbles, bald above but resolved
below with a pigeon’s dumpy hips. I mean
coffee cups that read I’d rather be,
pillow slips overrun by ascoted lambs,
lamps topped with spaghetti lucite globes.
It is our most endearing fault: to love
mutant objects, kitsch and schlock;
to hold some ugly things dear.