No death wish, really
just
recurring casualties of
confidence
Body struck by blind spots—
broken bones
bruises
burns
Scrambling into objects,
people, emotions
Handling hot surfaces and
sharp edges
Falling, forcing, fainting
Oblivious to impending pain until
it pounces
(optimism as slow suicide,
perhaps?)
Gathering myself in the waiting room glare
I huddle with the rest of the unlucky
This time, a slick sidewalk—
thumb black with
creeping bruise
crooked wristbone
Dozens of eyes dart behind masks
nursing their own troubles while
the unspoken lurks
(after all)
in this very building
I read the news and dare not cough
Written by MK Lochhead
