Holding Place

Nails bent, edges rough and skewed,

patched wood cracked and barely glued.

The shelf leans, unsteady, worn,

yet bears the books, the weight of scorn.

A creak, a shudder, then it stays,

holding steady through the days.

A crooked line of pages kept,

a crooked shelf that never wept.

Built in haste, but built to last,

a thing that holds despite the past.

Fragile, flawed, but strong enough—

a crooked arm, a quiet bluff.