Not everyone’s so lucky.
Long before the world drew up its shades,
we gathered at the table, trembling,
and drew lots. A friend of mine,
who washed his hands before and after
every single meal, became an earthworm.
One, a teller of white lies,
now swings his guts
in some damp forest, limb to limb,
spinning his web. He’s looking for
a fly who was my neighbor
in the mist before: always annoying
with his busy drone in my good ear.
That guy who hit on anything in skirts
is baying at the moon, far from the pack,
lost in the howl of his desire.
One girl who favored woolen sweaters
has become a moth in her own closet.
But I’m sitting pretty in Des Moines,
in this bright mall, one of a tank
of ritzy goldfish. Not so bad,
with easy money all around me,
and a gilded life for me to spend.