Watching the world turn
isn’t as fulfilling as you’d think.
Everything I do is damaging.
Last night I stepped on a snail,
felt its soft flesh through my toes and
stubbed my cigarette into wet grass,
before throwing it in the trash.
a coffee later in the day
with those politically-sensitive coffee beans.
My car belching away from work,
and I think of that hole in the ozone layer,
what I imagine as a split
in a silky spiderweb.
My thoughts are the worse.
I see pink and I think of bourgainvilleas,
and that mother holding her child under them,
stretching her hand out to me
like a walnut cracked open
and the baby crying,
a slash in an almond face,
as if already sensitive to the
riptide of life ahead.
I crossed the road. I crossed the road.
I crossed the road
and exhaled in relief.
There were millions just like her,
but something about her life-softened face
against the stark, bright flowers
seemed tragic to me,
just too sincere.