On The Workbench

I labeled you an empty jar,
air tight, to conceal
a time and place worth
conveying in the afterlife.

The seal was never fit though,
you escaped, and I rattled
around in old coffee tins
filled with screws and bolts

as we worked to repair repercussions
in both our lives—nuts
that never fit, and sockets
always one size off.

You usually tried to fit in a pair
of my hand-me-down shoes
attempting to correct your life,
though they never were as snug

as you expected.  I suppose
I cut the laces, demanded you
switch to velcro in your old age.
I never meant it in heart even if you did

take the best of me and digest it, tossing
it aside like loose change in a guitar case.
It was always like looking into a mirror,
never knowing when to give in

or when to give up.  So I set another jar
up on the workbench, labeled it me,
and every now and then I try to fit inside,
but the seal is never tight.