The bookshelf is crooked

The bookshelf is crooked.

I know because I built it,

because my hands remember

the way the drill bit caught on the wood

and pulled left, and I kept going,

didn't stop to adjust.

I could fix it now.

I could add a shim, retighten the bolts.

But I haven't shown it to anyone,

which means nobody knows it's wrong,

which means if I keep the door closed

and the lights low,

maybe the imperfection doesn't exist,

maybe the thing I made with my own hands

doesn't have to be evidence

of the carelessness I brought to it.

A mug would slide off if I put it there.

I don't put mugs there.

I put nothing there.

The shelf holds only its own mistake.