"I found a spoon in the road, the handle
bent up and over itself, the bowl charred
on the bottom from flame. When I put my ear
to a junkie's spoon, I hear waves
swallowing themselves.
In case someone had tossed the spoon away
to implore a clean river to return
to their veins, I gave it an honored place
under the sycamore where
our cats are buried.
Some nights the spoon eats moonlight,
some nights, rain. Every day I try
to believe in angels, and every day I fail."
— Hope by Bob Hicok
We are all preparing the smoke detectors
for the chaos: Spraying our loved ones’
faces with fire retardant. The more we
accept the sinking of the moon, the
quicker we can achieve serenity, on
a beach chair as the final tide rolls in.
You sit in the booth facing the door
just in case a bad guy comes in.
It’s not a matter of when someone
is going to pull a gun, but if:
You will be ready with time dilation.
A smile at a maven’s disillusionment.
Splinters enter your fingers when you
run your hand along a plank ready to be
turned into a casket for the death of your
best idea. Later, during a smoke with legs
dangling off the edge of the water
tower, you remember you’ve had better.
The committee of vultures oversees
the belief that chaos is okay: You
building a scale model of your problems
just to axe it out back as the neighbor
watches from his grill, and a wispy cloud
takes the shape of a bastille.
Forget the cats you could’ve saved
and the spray-painted bus that’s become
another ill-fated tourist attraction.
The stadium is ready to watch you fail.
And you are ready, too, equipped
with your best bad dance move.
