It Don't Rub Off

Feb 22, 2019

More and more each day

my life looks like a stage set.

Props

my green rubber key chain,

the white bowl from which

I eat Cheerios.

More and more it looks less real;

it's nothing like I wanted, not at all.

It's more like a joke that's on me, the opposite

of my desires.  It waits to see

if I'll laugh.  I do; I laugh. It's so silly, wanting,

but it can't be helped.  Wanting is like breathing

or waiting

while something giant hurtles towards me

too far away to sense,

but it's coming.

And I need it.

I'm in no hurry to see through things;

they control the pace.

Who I am

is not a mistake. I came here for an exercise

a knowledge that slips through my fingers.

One day my fist will close around it.

My car is banged up and cut

my knees hurt.

I'm poor but never broke.

My broke friends know

I'll find something for them to do

and I'll pay them.

I carry some of their Stupid for a while.

It don't rub off. 

I always think I'm injured but I'm not:

except that life is injury, an obscure pathway

through a forest full of thrilling birds

and venomous snakes.

Is this real?

Yeah, I guess so.  For now.