Square

There I was—

a child, soft fists,

pushing a block at a hole.

The hole was round,

my block was square,

and I thought, surely,

this time.

I grew older,

arms stretched longer,

mind a little wider,

but the hole was still there,

waiting, indifferent,

like the world in school clothes.

And my block?

Still square,

still stubborn,

still mine.

I kicked it once,

out of spite,

hoping anger might make it fit.

I cried at it next,

hoping tears could wear it down.

But that block—

that godforsaken block—

stood solid and unchanged,

a silent witness to

my failing geometry.

They said,

"One day, you'll learn,"

but I never did.

Not really.

I just got taller,

older,

more tired.

Now I try to shove that block

with notes in my pocket,

and a tie around my neck,

but it's the same child,

same block,

same hole—

unfit, unchanged,

an endless puzzle

that only I believed could be solved.

And somewhere in this cosmic nursery,

I think maybe the hole laughs.

Or maybe the block cries.

Or maybe it's just me,

still hoping,

still pushing,

still pretending

I’ll find the right angle

for a round world.