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Cynical Satellite

 

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?

 

 

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