“nobody loses all the time.” e.e. cummings
This time of year, the good odds are on
sky-pollens joyriding skin,
and foghorns picking up the nightshift,
and the icecream man traveling
infinity timeloops through these
sun-charmed Long Beach streets.
The good odds are on a funeral:
another deep breath of my heart
lost to time.
Sometimes the horse with a bad hip wins,
the horse that knows the track by heart
doesn’t have to run it,
and this year,
it seems this has happened so
I recalculate the odds.
I lullaby myself the
that I’ll sleep eventually.
That I’ll forget how eulogies taste
like uneaten icecream melting on
an April pavement.
That I will show up to the morning puffy-faced
from the fog-shouts and pollen-kisses,
and nothing else,
everything in my heart safe from
Sometimes the best prize
is just a break.