Stumbling Grace

I'm not sure if my heart is breaking 
Or attacking 
Like an aged lovesick romantic with a faulty beat, 
I sense a valve needs replacing 
But only after the main artery has been sutured and made whole 
By a seasoned and skilled Midwest surgeon in a lambskin trench coat - 
Who's weathered more storms than I care to admit - Nor she cares to remember.

I'm not sure if our fights are petty 
Or forever. 
Like misguided missiles 
Launched by allied nations 
We feud over coveted territory. 
Like unconscionable instruments of war, 
We cause immeasurable pain - 
Then pat the pillows and dim the lights - 
With no resolution or gain in sight.

I'm not sure if this map is useless 
Or irreplaceable. 
Like petulant teens 
Wandering with great intention 
Through the wooded indifference of nature's instructive and destructive path, 
We snicker, and then sulk - 
Pouring another forbidden nightcap to forget troubles - 
Depressed at the thought of losing our way.

I'm not sure if this poem is perfect 
Or pathetic. 
Deplorable 
Or recoverable. 
Doomed 
Or destined. 
Recyclable 
Or irrefutable. 
A sham, a shamble 
Or rather memorable (and possibly frameable with a lifetime guarantee).

I'm not sure if this road is paved 
Or potholed. 
Like a traffic signal whose fuse has stopped connecting, 
Making red lights green lights yellow lights no lights, 
Causing all sorts of havoc and unplanned detours 
For two drivers unaccustomed to making spot decisions 
Without being told what to do, when to act - how to feel - 
I write with the stumbling grace of art's redemption 
And the hope of your forgiveness.