The More Deserved

We know nothing better than what
we never get to call our own, space
it should be filling, its masterful lack.
We marry our unachievements, make

resentment a second home: a garden
we keep out back, for little pleasures.
Her ring slipped off a finger, the line
slack now at the bottom of the ravine,

promotions passing overhead like jets:
the day we least deserve grand failure,
we will receive it at the door, delivered
by gloved hand, tipping for the letter.

Copyright © 2003 Todd Swift All rights reserved
from Café Alibi
DC Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission