Poor Excuses

Because the clouds resemble fists splayed
against the caterwauling teenage sky
& flukey spring's a fluke of mud & construction,
a lie the mountains tell to each other
and to fibs of rocky beach.

If I'm supposed to know, for example, why
I'm here, an iceberg will calve itself
free of the mighty Arctic, leaking out
secrets. It should be that obvious, the way
a body is matinee to its own madness
and fractured singing.

What if the body is a crater, not meaning to be
attracted to the rickety dark?
Maybe it's born greedy, like a sea star.
Maybe the body is maritime,
an inlet of devotion to chemical imbalance,
& if only I can dupe it into going steady
the two of us shall never meet
again, except as strangers.

Because trying to embrace life every single day
is boring, exhausting, pretty pointless
if I'm honest, I sometimes pretend
a companion or two appears in the fog
rolling in like newer reasons.

Copyright © 2003 Andi Werblin All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission