The statistics pile up and the numbers
say something to someone, just not me.
Instead, I convert the degrees to words to water
and present my case in this tributary,
one traced before, but not like this.
Here’s another one from the depths
of something dirtier than my thoughts:
They’re all coiffed women and male-pattern men;
they’re all intent on intending,
but no one is saying it outright –
you’re bald underneath all that hair.
So, I sit in my Shazam moment,
my All-Star party,
my instapersonality,
my my, oh my,
and wonder for the last time this very minute:
Can I stay centered?
Can I see the humor?
Can I keep my faith?
No, come, River,
she’s pissed off because the Waterfall couldn’t find his sweater
and she has only a little time left
to remind us how much there is that we don’t have.
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