A SAMPLE OF YOUR NEW LUCK
Neither of us signed up for this scrutiny,
bear-soft and set to club the hive
both. We never read the instructions
on this cream. We bought the tin
for the tap of our nails and to
trim them is the lonely opposite of
gross. Darling, when did we walk into
suction cups and the release forms of
a sleep study that jolts us huh to hear
"Congratulations!" up the hall, but for
who? Did you catch that? Now we're
happy for them? Oh. We've heard tell
of Accomplishments like get-you-some,
so we staple on dead ant mustaches and,
like, is that what you mean? Will someone
knock on our pillow tonight to say "Howdy,
you've won! It's over! These side bets,
a battalion of 7s, the holy escalator,
plum juice atomized, a dessert collage
from checkered flags and FDR's diary:
this is but a sample of your new luck."
All of these I stow in my chest bones
like Christmas presents that embarrass
airport security and make them think
"Either I gave shitty things this year
or got them. Why can't I remember?"
The night is a commercial for trains.
Dreams on call with eyebrows wet.
I'm making a lot of money counting
how awake I can stay in the tyranny of
sequels to self-recipes. Should I practice
my headers? Did I cauterize my friend?
You're rubbing the cream mask in your
fit, all over the cool side. Eighty-six
umbrellas open in the street, and they
spell something in how they float (is it
a billet-doux?) NO, THE INSTRUCTIONS SAY
RUB IN GENTLY. THEY NEVER SAID MASK.