Another day

He wakes up breathing and finds
His two feet waiting for him.
This is a miracle.
The odds against it huge.

But what does he care
He doesn’t give it a second’s thought
Ungrateful, clueless

He thinks he thinks
There’s too much everything
In the world.
But there’s exactly the right amount.

He thinks he thinks
Everything’s the wrong size
But of course everything fits.

One by one
He unnests and plays with the Russian dolls
Of who he is and isn’t.
He takes a pill for his problem.

He has breakfast
Gags on the newspaper.
Contemplates the holocaust
At the end of his fork

Large American mammal.
Work of art.
He gathers himself around his balls
And heads out into the world.

In captivity, he’ll never get pregnant.
He’ll never amount to much more than his knees.
He’s just getting stupider,
Maybe just a little happier.

 If he could just shut up and sing for crissake
If he could just downsize and desist goddamnit
If he could just fly and stop being so hungry the schmuck
If he could just get rid of and make himself useful for a change.

                                                -- Panama, August 19, 2006

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