hands worn to nubs from wringing them,
full of good advice no one wants,
please shoot me in the head, or
give me a gravy bath and leave me
in Wolf Country
so that I may once again experience emotions beyond cheap fretting
and vague upset.
Faced with a circling pack,
my concern over a sweater pilling
or
the neighbor's cat shitting in the azaleas
will seem quaint and stupid.
I will rise up,
screaming come you motherfuckers, come
and I will be seen and considered
for the first time in years.
______
for Sunday Muse #96.