Being better

No one is good the way I am good. 

My bones are good. They’re long. The one in my nose is not straight because I broke it with another bone, a knee bone. This is how they prove they are both weak and strong, though, and I do not consider it a betrayal. My bones have not betrayed anyone.  

I imagine how for other people they could be vessels that hold a lot of things– I think my grandmother kept a lot of fear in her bones. When I would go help at the Center it was always so much work to make sure the faucets would not keep running, because they didn’t have strength enough to turn the handles. I would think, what are you keeping in there? What have you made of your bones?

Paul and I walked through the city yesterday where a man stood still with a can at his feet. I said you have to have good bones for that– for standing that still– but Paul kept going, saying that this whole city has good bones and that we are all made of hard parts and soft parts. 

But there are parts that can boil, and run through your fingers, I think. What about those parts. 

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