He isn’t going to suddenly come up
with a reason as to why so many different people
can each ruin a perfectly good apartment with spray paint
and hammers when asked to design an ideal God at 4:15 a.m.

Arts and crafts were a waste of time at five years old,
and his opinion of them has only gotten lower
from there.

If the time ever comes he’ll be at a loss
as to how he might build a cast for a broken leg
out of old milk cartons.

And he isn’t going to ask for a straightforward biography
from any of the sullen pajama party veterans
of those road trips where half the travel time is spent
waiting for the weather conditions to turn ideal.

Or waiting for the cops to fall asleep at the wheel
when all those forgotten billboard signs
begin and finish the greatest domino effect magic act
ever seen by the half dozen people who know
to be in the right place at the right time.

He’s happy. He could walk from Queens
to Cleveland on the leisurely backs of beautiful cars
with the tops rolled down and not once kick over
someone’s drink.

He’s thrilled. He could outrun broken glass
flying from every fearful direction.

Right now he could even protect a loved one
from whatever’s just around the corner.

Favoring the good leg over the selfish one
he sucks in his gut and puts on his jacket.

Happiness is fine,
but he’s not going to start making phone calls
to everyone telling them that they no longer
have to talk about him as though the ground is finally cold.

Only a kid who thinks they know everything
would dream of screwing with odds like these.

He’s not old,
but all that coffee has better things to do
than worry about the concept of age.

Outside a few thousand bees come out of nowhere
and try to stop those huge cigarette and bread trucks.

He watches and unlocks the front door.
Right now it’s six p.m. It takes an hour to get where he’s going.

The smaller cars get by that whole stupid, deranged bee thing
without any trouble. That has to be a good sign.

02/03/2011

Posted on 02/03/2011
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