Making Do

I see the scraps stacked high, a fortress built from mistakes,

each rough edge carries the weight of summers spent,

a hammer in my hand, the sound of laughter echoing—

a moment suspended, the grain of memory woven tight.

The boards slide across each other,

a makeshift table under the open sky,

where conversations splinter,

each word a nail driving deeper,

and I’m left searching for meaning,

like a child lost in the scent of sawdust.