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 

 the same.
                     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.