Crooked Painting

There is a crooked painting

hanging on my wall.

I don’t know why

I bring it up,

in the long run,

it is hardly important.

But I’m sitting here,

staring at this painting,

and it’s crooked.

It has been crooked

for quite a while now,

I remember noticing,

several months ago,

how crooked it was.

Yet I’ve never straightened it.

Even as I sit here,

writing about a crooked painting,

I have no real intention

of straightening it.

So, it will remain crooked,

and I will remain

slightly annoyed that it is crooked.

I’m sure this says something about me,

shows some fundamental flaw in my character.

I’d wager that a more insightful,

a more intelligent person,

would even know what that shows about me,

but I have no clue.

Perhaps I’m just lazy,

or too complacent to fix it.

I could play for sympathy,

tell you that it is the last painting

my mother painted before her death.

But that isn’t true,

I bought it at a store for a few bucks,

I don’t even really like it.

Maybe that’s why I don’t straighten it,

because I don’t care enough about it.

But, if I don’t care about it,

why does it bother me that it’s crooked.

Maybe I should get up

and straighten it.

See if that sets off a chain reaction,

and straightens out

all that is bad in my life.

I could replace it,

find a painting I like better.

Or I could just accept it,

stare at it for a while longer,

it’s not such a bad painting

after all.

Author's Note

I haven't written anything in a long while. There just didn't seem to be any poetry in my anymore. I'm not sure what I think of this one, so any comments would be welcome.