Fluke

I see the factory start overtime
and catch a glimpse of a car accident.
Some young guy in his eight thousand
dollar ride that barely stays in drive.
They get the hydrant open fast enough
and nothing burns for longer than it’s needs to.
We have the same feelings about it
for years, and here I am again,
unpacking all the angles so someone else can
understand the pile up.
I cut my mouth on a plastic fork
and everyone at the local cook out
sees it and proceeds to pass me over
all their napkins.
The fireworks leave a gunshot smell
in the air when we are done with them,
and all the rest is cardboard and forgiveness.
The college kids with bandannas on their arms
stop me on my way into the gift shop
and assure me I should sign something,
I barely read before I get it over with.
I remember being tired on the day
I signed a contract with some old lady
on the edge of town outlining terms
for all our future fuck ups.
I guess I’ve never let inscriptions
make my jacket out of copy paper.
I respect the ink though in so far
that it is literally what darkens up the water.
When I lived above a tattoo place
I would watch this one girl mix it
into the solution she injected under
all her client’s skin.
I lived like nothing then I still don’t know
what made them let me in,
but if I had to search for guesses
it was likely just a fluke of generosity.

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