Which

BEING REASONABLY CERTAIN

That my presence from the daily report has been elided,
that I forgot some time ago all concise directions
to the freeway, that if you ask me I cannot tell you
how best to escape, that I carry with me
the germ of loss, knotted up inside me,
like a little handkerchief, that I'm thinking
of myself in ridiculous terms, like Bela Lugosi
and lanyard, that to some a leaf-blower
is music, even as it coincides with dawn,
and dreams so good they melt in your
mind when you lay there wanting a lot more
violence or a bowl of cereal and the nagging sense
that you have done the wrong thing,
even that, even that, though this is fodder for debate
and maybe even philosophy, maybe
some other task which begins on a train,
on the walk home, in the middle of being distracted
by porcelain in the fragile aisle
of a store you swear is evil itself,
but here you are because it's dark or raining
or the Super Bowl went sour
in record time, and everything accounted for was too much,
that motion was called for, any sort,
that it was a prescription for an allergy
suffered only by the ancient, by Romans,
by people generally comfortable
with entrails having a larger say in public policy,
that I have been, the whole time, speaking of myself,
that this is no real surprise, that you will not be saved.