I wasn’t built with certainty
made last thing
on a Friday afternoon
all my screws
nuts and bolts
one turn away
from being tight enough
not quite enough
solder on my circuits
or flooded into each other
all my edges
a few millimetres
from being flush
all my doors
either scrape the floor
or draws a draft
my locks don’t align
but there are some poems
about you
for you
folded tight
placed beneath
the table’s leg
stopping it from rocking
when you sit at it
and sip your tea
made with milk
on the cusp of turning
from the fridge
that’s always dark
and through my tearful windows
sunlight will stream upon you
the vacuum freed
long ago
from my double glazing
