Misfit Gallery

There’s a room at my temple
behind the idols and the arch
past the fire, round the chariot
the backstage of the gods.
Where cluttered lie the torches
and the robes and the food
and long forgotten plaques
honor faithful generosity.
In this dark and narrow twilight,
between hope and despair,
unsuspecting children cross
blithely from side to side.
I know why they have it
this place for imperfection
a four-walled insulation
from detractors.
A room in which to toss
all your spare and lonely parts
unbecoming, incogruous
a misfit gallery.