Arranging deck chairs on the Titanic

Our cleaner pointed at the stack
Of journals, notebooks on my chair
And said she found them on the floor
Collapsed, with pages here and there.

Again, I saw, she’d stacked them wrong –
The small, on top; the big, below –
Forgetting there’s a harmony
To how they stand and how they flow.

Precarious as Buddhist cairns,
These catchers of my mental fart
Accrue as vital vertebrae
That form the backbone of my art.

I smiled and thanked and shook my head,
Forgetting she could see the last.
She waited, saw my Jenga tower,
And smiled and tied her saree fast.

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