Midlife friends
with dying fathers
or missing mothers
or similar hidden gashes
wounding the day
with a deep desire to please,
to successfully wrap our days
in a beautiful bow, impeccably resolved
and well-taped
to offer back
as a tidy and generous ending.
There is no box,
no fussy camoflague,
and lids prevent seeing
the bright sparkles,
incoherent flotsam of our treasures,
unstrung pearls and macaroni necklaces,
grotty trove on offer,
messy gratitude.