Even before starting,
it feels faintly
painful
and exhausting—the terrible
long shot
that anything
is ever really
like anything
else. But—
whatever.
So this poem has
no magic
pebbles in it. No
majestic power
animals or extremely
hot peppers. So what?
Maybe that's
just it.
Maybe that's
the whole premise—
maybe it's
last night
or this
morning, and we're at
the train stop, we're
on the internet,
etc.
when—
the same thing happens.
I mean, the very
exact same stupid
old numb inane pin
prick of a thing as usual—only
this time,
it feels
just a little
new.
Which isn't
to say (don't worry)
there's really anything
you're supposed to feel
or do about it
afterwards.
I'm mostly just trying
to distract you
while I
give you this
little—
inoculation.
