You can throw through a window
Or build a second floor.
I lifted my hand today, like everyday,
Clutching my coffee mug
The grinds of a weak memory
Doing something on the floor—
I thought about my job
How I made lunch for my son
How Monica fell down, back to Sao Paolo.
What is sunk deeper than jealousy,
But rage for the music of shattered glass,
When we don’t get our way we burn
Them, the recollections of the ones
Who refused to be collected?
If I didn’t slip on the icy tarmac today,
I could write that on a Post-It note, then it’s a good morning.
I could get by on caffeine and words.
There is no protest in restraint
Which is anathema and inscrutable.
Like an unwelcome walk in someone’s
Life, living without aching.
I try not to get in the way of creation.
I try not to misuse anything.