What’s stopping us from getting
what we want is unclear and frustratingly
good at what it does. A complex ecosystem
of trauma. The blotchy What
in What’s wrong?
or No, really, what’s wrong?
When my quarter barricades
a gumball machine,
I’ll shake it for what’s owed.
As an apparatus of joy, I do what I do.
Midday slump, don’t you think
it’s time you let go?
I’m more habit than gumption.
Once you realize change is infectious,
you dive right in.
On the hood of my car you swore
you fell in love with metal.
I’m dewy, damp with effort,
lurking in the middle distance.
Hold me is an interpretive response
to a battery of stimuli.
My thoughts are guilty as charged:
Out There, context-free, wrangled in hazy
half-truth’s attic light.