the collection of clutter

the tiger can’t change its stripes

the leopard can’t change its spots 

but I broke, am broke, was baroque

all Tiffany lamps and guilt

I adored dark woods carved ornate;

 

now the clutter overwhelms 

someone has to dust that

scrolling, could I breathe - harsh

edges, would I bruise things -

these questions have to be asked 

the tiger can’t change its stripes

the leopard can’t change its spots 

but I have, haven’t I - changed 

on my own volition purposefully 

listing and doing - checking boxes

forced by the traumas

of a life unforgiving, unfolding;

I exist in a 180 degree 

turnabout spinning 

on a hot metal go-round 

flung here and there grasping 

the middle pole singing flesh

landing in a minimalist 

journey, settling into spaces 

negative and white

peripherally away

from the collection of clutter

the tiger can’t change its stripes

the leopard can’t change its spots 

but I am not a wild cat prowling