I’m the cling-clang of coins in my pocket,
and loose paperclips in a desk drawer.
Like lipstick and gum in a lady’s purse,
I’m a kid’s toys strewn about on the floor.

When I walk my insides rattle about,
like a  janitor’s keys without his ring,
like groceries bagged by junior baggers,
I’m jumbled as a cat’s unraveled string.

I’m less ordered than a box of Legos,
or debris remaining after a storm.
Nuts and bolts in an amateur toolbox
click-clack and click-clack with even more form.

I’m just a package of random loose parts,
though the world sees me as perfectly fine.
Life is making order of that chaos,
but it’s my life and that chaos is mine.