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“A hand-me-down dress from who knows where/ To all tomorrow’s parties.”—Lou Reed
It’s easy to predict the future:
Death is hidden
in every watch
I’ve ever stared at, steady
scrutinizing
but never waiting.
These days, though, who wears a watch?
There’s too much time
spent honeying the past,
nostaligizing sorrow and sadness
as a righteous blast.
All tomorrow’s parties
inevitably turning into yesterday’s empties,
empty, empty,
waiting to be recycled.
My spirit animal
is a poorly paper mached piñata
in the shape of a pony.
Colored green and white
and yellow and red,
it’s filled
to its fat forehead
with crisp $100 bills.
In this unseasonable summer
wind my spirit
animal is whipping
so violently
back and forth
overhead
that I’m afraid
to swing at it.
My heart is in my throat,
my bat in the failure
of my fingers’ shaky hands.
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