Some days all I need to be happy is a subway seat
and a Diet Dr Pepper. Other days I’m waiting
for the fog to spell out my name (it never happens).
I want to believe in the bulbous green spaces
between my emotions, that mythical quietness
where baby ducks waddle and hide cloud babies
under their wings, but then anger shows up again,
dressed like an old-fashioned nun from a dayglo
comic book, carrying a yapping chihuahua in her
black patent handbag. She wants to punch
the sunset, wants the moonlight to whiten her teeth
but all the groaning in her bones gets in the way.
Why can’t middle age be like that TV show
where the ending comes at the beginning?
Everyone knows it’s going to be tragic, so why not
show that first. Then we can focus on the love story—
the center of the desk drawer’s wrapped truffle,
the bodega kitten’s upstretched off-white neck.
