Centering

The first question is not how

to accept the premise that I

am not the subject of this day—

its focus, protagonist, star—

but how to verify it. Most

evidence suggests the opposite:

everything radiating in circles

from my head, for instance,

centering me amidst countless

concentric orbits, the dark side

behind me, the bright one ahead,

the hemisphere of memory meeting

the hemisphere of expectation

at a line that bisects me

at the point from which I look. Yes,

it is hard to explain, but I see

indications that my children

were born to teach me hope and

fear and selflessness or about

the many playthings there are;

and my mother died so I would

grow inured and sad ahead

of all my losses and disappointments

so as not to be surprised

or crestfallen; and my father

drank so I could walk away then

and I drink so I can walk away now.

It’s almost obvious there is cause

and effect, logic, events

lining up with their morals,

like how my wife was presented

to me so I could learn to be good

to her, and bad. Perhaps

there are other things I’ll be

meant to do. Everywhere I walk

I’m at the center of each step,

aligning sidewalk and sky like a

spirit-level-bubble and bringing along

as much of the world as matters.