Adaptation (Poetry)

I am the sum total of my days —
a collection of hours threaded through with thought
and gathered — drawn into a shape
that once seemed made to fit me.

And yet the tailoring is sometimes faulty —
the seams of memory wrinkle — hemlines catch
and become ragged — trail unheeded —
holes appear impossible to patch.

Dreams become odd buttons left undone
and patterning of fabric fails to match —
minutes tack themselves to cuffs like foolish frills
needling a ragbag of ill-conceived ideas.

The old design — the trendsetter original — cut close
to some forgotten plan now worn so thin
that I can count the years as warp and weft —
take measurements — adapting any style that’s left —
                make do and mend.