Do you ever have a day
when nothing feels good?
You amble around in dirty PJs,
take bites of foods
from your crisper, your cabinet.
Everything is mealy.
For months, you’ve played Solitaire
in bed each night, buying into
that wretched myth
you could ever “win.”
The man who told you he wanted you
back, then two days later announced
he’d slept with another, loved her,
preferred her, said, “Now, listen”
(as if he was some authority
in honesty and truth). “I know you
are still in love with me,”
and damned
if that fucking man wasn’t true.
Like a goddamn carnival game,
he aimed that sharp dart and got you, didn’t he?
Other things not exceptional: paying taxes,
the exorbitant price of eggs, the terrifying
news headlines, the joint pain in your
almost-fifty-year-old fingers and ankles.
You’re a thin muslin bag.
Even your anger isn’t exceptional anymore—
isn’t that the saddest thing? Ahh, the rage of youth!
Without the sharp blade of love
to machete through the crap of the world,
you’re a bit lost, aren’t you?
It was nice for a time to feel infused
with a lover’s adoration. Like lidocaine,
a sedative forest. Now you eat oatmeal
for breakfast and sometimes for lunch,
cold and unsweetened, straight out
of the leftovers container in the fridge
with your fingers.
You do Kegels every few weeks
when you lay on the electrolysis table,
and the old lady zaps the hairs
relentlessly sprouting on your upper lip.
For the past year, you tried to practice gratitude.
But some days the dump truck
of self-pity is just too strong.
If this was a snowstorm, a white-out blur,
you’d know what to do. Put on your flashers,
squint your eyes, blast some punk or something
with a beat, and you’d ride it out, wouldn’t you?
Even when nothing can be made out,
when you can barely see an inch past your nose,
you’d drive right through.
