Apr 1, 2025

Nothing Personal, Probably

I was made to understand
this intimacy is naturally occurring,
but there are some of mine
that refuse to be eaten.
It is unclear which ones,
so I avoid the whole batch.

The postman arrives
with a letter that simply reads:
No Further Extensions.
I nod as if this was expected.
I have not applied for anything.

In the woods, someone has left a piano for dead.
It plays itself at night when no one is listening.
Each note bends slightly to the left, like a man
leaning into his own disappearance.

My neighbor reports seeing me in his backyard,
but only from the corner of his eye.
It was a pleasant version of me, he says,
not the one that stares into microwaves
as if waiting for instructions.

A goldfish dies on my kitchen counter
without explanation. It was never mine.
This poem, so sick with pretense,
licks its wounds and swallows its own tail.

Somewhere, a hospital calls
to inform me I have been successfully born.

I apologize for the inconvenience.