A poem about how we are not all ticky-tacky boxes, nor do we fit in them.
Growing up, I was not aware of all
the folks out there who didn't fit
so neatly into boxes I'd been taught
Even Mr. Rogers in his hand-knit sweaters
talked of girls, talked of boys, talked
of love as if it had a certain order
we must follow.
But nature didn't build us boxes, or proclaim
an order that the universe must follow,
follow to the end of time, and never vary,
Colors come in more than black or white,
flavors come in more than bitter or sour,
passion comes in more than love or hate
No need to force the circles into squares,
or see the different as an other, worse
a lessor. When we all confess our sins, will
we add these?