Being stillborn had its advantages —
the peace of eternity portioned out
by default, a round laugh at randomness
all awry, no fields for a crop of doubt.
You couldn’t leave me to my leaden joy,
so tethered me with invisible vines.
Fatigued, I asked to enter your employ
with responsibility for the tides.
I worked the water, and I made it yield
thing after thing that seemed sure to survive.
The ones that did never fully appealed,
and then, somehow, on my face they arrived.
But I was unkind to your living wage.
What good has a pet for print on a page?