Holes In The Wall

On my wall I have a portrait of my grandson, and
paper plate dolls my granddaughters hung
with red and yellow push pins.
There’s an eight and a half by eleven photo
of my brother’s Jack Russell terrier,
printed on 20 pound copy paper, dangling
from a trio of blue, gray, and green plastic knobs.
To the far left is an unframed charcoal
my daughter sketched of grumpy old me, and,
you guessed it, a purple tack centered at the top.
A clear-faced, cheap, round clock—hanging
on a color I forgot, reigns dead in the middle
with a jerky second hand that abhors silence.
I have a calendar with a Van Gogh print,
“Imperial Crown Fritillari In A Copper Vase”
stuck and re-stuck on the first day
of what’s been a good turn of months.
Arranged like pieces in a puzzle that never fit,
some cocked to the side, some overlapping; all
appreciated with purposes and memories different.
The box is still half full of multi-colored pins,
and several spaces left for holes in the wall.