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It's only three o'clock and I think
the sun is saying only to me
tomorrow will be another day.

Or should be. I hate how
this laggard star speaks in
the weak light of riddles.

I should be more receptive.
Try harder. At the Burger King,
make a hard right. Pray

to me. Your life depends
upon whatever you don't know
in this moment. I would

take to heart the hard-won wisdom
of that song lilting through
the distant air. Everything

is broken, or will be,
soon enough. I think of
the ranch I dreamed of last night.

How the day fell down
among the neighing violence
of the horses that refused any mastery.

My own. This is what I do
well: I ache for this version
of your life, a long time ago,

in which nothing yet was irrevocable.
Across the street, a Walmart
ticked in the summer heat

like a bomb. This was before I met you.
This was before I believed
I would perish in the rain

in a pile of copper-jacketed bullets.
I made that up. I am not
telling you the truth

about pain. How it fills you up
like a song. Who is that
singing and what is her name?

How do I get there
from here? Tell me this one secret.
Show me the door. Give me your hand.

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Copyright © 2022 Paul Guest All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission