Let’s quit our worrying,
& be honest with ourselves,
with each other.
Let’s stop pretending that
this doesn’t end, for all of us,
Let’s just strive to do
Let’s find a way
to celebrate that,
A Dark, Desperate
Kind of Luck…
…that’s what we hope for,
a grace in the face of defeat &
that same grace in the face of victory,
perhaps a break,
a gentle kind of
or if not painless, then
we beg the gods:
Go easy on us…
We always know where to find suicide—
it sits in a smoky, dark back corner table
in a sweaty old jazz club,
years worth of spilt beer & teardrops
worked into the wood floor boards,
& there it sits, eyes closed
while the lady in the blue dress
weeps out a tune.
There’s a kind of comfort in that.
I suppose there’s sense to be made of it all,
but only for prostitutes, & beggars,
scorpions, oxen & politicians.
Maybe the snarl-toothed boars understand.
The pyracantha & the billionaires definitely do.
But the rest of us are left
to our demons & ourselves…
& for us I say this:
what can be