Once I Had an Acceptance Speech

Driving too close to the curb. Admit

to being poor. Stash pumpkin seeds

for my kid. Hustle the Christian way.

Starch my shirt collars. Value a strong

smudge. Give pigeons saintly names.

Cream both my feet. Recycle. Sign off

emails with warm regards. Double tap

#vegan. Heart statuses which start with

I’m delighted to announce. Mornings.

I struggle to decide what mood to wear.

Evenings. I lie beside my aftershaves

imagining the sea. I should really have

it by now. A Dyson. Panasonic bread

maker. A photo by the piano of a slum

tour. I need the spirit of a full-moon party

rather than the charisma of a shed. They

honk when I slow. I swear with my eyes.

Think of real blood. Sunday comes. Dad

asks what’s the plan. I knit him the only

winning scratch card. I leave a candle on

for destiny. Once. I had an acceptance

speech written. Soon. A staircase will rise

to defeat us all. The roads have moved.

When I get in I’ll sit in the shower & say

it’s a bath. Double tap an ultrasound pic.

Sip railroad water. Notification. ZANC1

started following you. Check my speed.

Slap on another Barry Manilow playlist.

Keep my grays in the dashboard. Wonder.

What the guy who put a gun to my little

brother’s head is doing for New Year’s.

Wonder. If my neighbor made it through.

Up ahead. A badger’s hit beside a boulder.

Its glare a wooden egg I slow for.