A poem I wrote this morning
Disinfectant
It is hard to make a decision
in relentless rain
when you have no idea how things are
normally
when normal is a stray dog, anyway.
You saw it through the window
on a highway once
before it disappeared
in the scrub.
“Go with your gut” we say.
You want to punch us
in ours.
No blame here.
We struggle to help
We being parents
We being friends
We being the guy behind the mask
at the grocery checkout
We being the people who say
“This is your life.”
“These are your years.”
“There are no bad choices.”
You are smart enough to know that
(though they may be true)
these are all clichés.
Spit on them, then.
Disinfect yourself
from our dreams
(if the stores have even restocked on disinfectant.)
Ramen
milk tea
money –
all go into a spreadsheet
that pretends this is obvious
or logical
that pretends this isn’t hard.
