Hit

MY LUCK

That day I spilled milk with crossed fingers
didn’t make sense but the tears did
even though the laws of science insist
there’s no sense in mourning
waste. At least, I think it’s science
but it could be philosophy
though I hated all of it
and tried to think of a world
where wisdom was optional,
a kind of intellectual dessert,
sugar-free, safe for diabetic friends,
of which I have one
toiling away in a land
where sunlight is also optional. Named
Minnesota a long time ago
everyone attempted not to weep
or blaspheme or run screaming
into the scarred arms of the past
waiting in official gloom like an abusive lover
and though I wasn’t there
the day was ruthlessly pleasant
and not many died
unless it was an option
they’d been considering for a long time
and what I mean to say
is that I’m capable of Truth.
You might doubt me. The veracity of all this.
So many times I’ve lied
my way into your beds and back out again,
it isn’t funny. Except it’s hilarious
and painful and exhausting and cathartic and untrue.
All at once,
a metaphysical hernia.
I’m not even sure why I’m here
or how the air can seem to scald everyone,
everyone in plain sight,
so I wait out the day’s thin patience
playing card games
I’m not sure I fully grasp
or even enjoy distracted as I am
by the mutter of rust,
the mewl of stolen kittens,
the sky punctured by blunt star light.