The floor is paved with wooden planks
rough and scratched
peeling, mismatched
taken from some ruin
in the country
Each unique
Each tells a story
of weather, of wear
of time, of neglect
Each wears its damage like a badge
Except
on closer examination
That scrape?
The same scrape, over there
turned around one-eighty
And again, under that table
and again, under that chair
Not similar:
the same, exactly
Each abrasion and mark
a reproduction of another
A dozen patterns
at the most
arranged in a way
that the alikeness is subtle
Somewhere, the originals
must exist
In a barn
or a wood shop
or a computer’s endless memory
But these are copies
spread just far enough apart
to impede comparison
and thus, each to profess itself
singular and rare
Consider, though
each face repeats
yet the placement
is unique
No two share the same neighbors
or location
or circumstance
So three triplets
separated to far corners of the floor
through the harrowing footsteps
soon differ
A chip here
A mark there
Matchless, with time
Every board in this broad floor
is a copy of another
and yet
no two are truly alike
