Skim

The cat needed pain killers and arthritis meds
as well as surgery to fix its rotting teeth
so it could eat again.

My brother almost got killed by something
pressurized that burst and sent forth shrapnel
that just so narrowly avoided all his veins.

I stay up all night and wait for things
to feel like they did when there was water here,
just water, and the treasures from the sinking
ships the statues of those ladies
made a mess of.

I take a corkscrew from the cabinet and I twist
it into every single wall until I find the one
I know for sure can bleed.
I ask it what it’s doing here,
and it responds in such a language
only architecture adequately translates.

I don’t want to be the one holding up
the ceiling or the group inside the elevator
trying to get out and go to work,
but what’s the hurry really?
No one fucking cares.

I guess that’s not true though in the ultimate
impression of the concrete dated 1966
out by the swimming pool
that has never felt the friction of a skim.

Refrigerator lightbulbs go out
like supernovas over leftover
stir fry and the whole world dies
in its sleep but keeps on dreaming.

I give up trying to understand
magic tricks before they’re even over,
and what’s pathetic is they almost
never end.