Lucky
. . . on fortune’s cap we are not the very button.
—Guildenstern
How about that Black Death?
Really tapered off, huh?
And only today I was lamenting the loss
of both my feet,
when I saw a man with no shoes.
Two satellites reentered the earth today
but missed my house.
Goddamn it.
Catholics call it a State of Grace,
one I’ve never driven through, though
I’m sure all the Highway Patrolers
are beautiful bears, fuzzy,
with brown button eyes.
But if I ever spin fortune’s wheel,
I’m betting all my bucks
on the black and bad.
And on the righteous red?
Half an egg
from the farm’s sickest chicken.
[+]
In the Personals
Aging widower seeks half-pint
woman half his age
for meaningful relationship.
Must be beautiful (long, black
curly hair preferred, olive
skin, Mona Lisa lips),
talented, hilarious.
Must love: cooking
“cheesy-peppery rice,”
writing and reading poems,
sex,
running five miles a day
on the treadmill,
singing Aretha Franklin
into the TV remote control,
dancing in the kitchen in XXXL
men’s t-shirts.
No sadness
or sickness need apply.
