The Wrong Fit
By John Herlihy

I don’t really fit;
Not even inside where I sit.
Size and shape
Do not a unity make.
I am made of rough edges,
Wild and uncouth,
Like garden hedges,
That need to be trimmed, forsooth.
Brambles and shrubs that need
To be chopped and clipped.
A wine that needs
To be savored and sipped.
Inside I find love and pain,
In addition to weakness and shame.

Like drifting dunes,
I live by ancient runes.
The thrum in my ears
Have the beat of an errant drum.
My hands are but stilled birds,
Wishing they could tingle and hum.
I write this poem,
Only to see if it fits.
Indeed, the words flow freely
The poem within me sits.
The words but sounds,
Little ships run aground.
I wish my poems had wisdom.
Perhaps they have a little wit.
My breath but wind,
That no one can rescind.