Wringing the Rubik’s cube for a solution,
gentle skill reconciles nine tiny blue squares to become a face
segregated from the greens, reds, and yellows.
Your nimble fingers work salvation into the block
then offer it to me, a finished product fallen to my lap.
Music plays, people talk, we tell stories—life continues—
as I confuse the cube into madness and return it again.
I like how you use the Rubik’s cube in the poem to symbolize the things that you put into chaos.
Thanks Tina! 🙂 It was definitely a time of my life when I felt like I was messing everything up and this particular boy could fix them all for me. And he could, in fact, solve a Rubik’s cube. 🙂