we are a jigsaw

cut from dogwood.

i will not deny that

there are pieces missing.

after all, grandpa joe drank

until and i have never met 

my mother’s mom, but still,

i am satisfied 

when the pieces lay,

are still together,

and the fractured image

is of Comerica,

or grandma’s kitchen table.

i would like to think that some

hobbyist might see us, smile

and feel; that our fragmented 

whole is worth the time it takes

to be scrambled,

put together,

and hung on the refrigerator,

right next to the shopping list.