The quarterback spits in his shoe and believes
therefore he’ll win today.
In this story
I am the believing, though once I thought
I was the shoe; I thought my father
was the spit; I thought
was very bearded and flanked
by handsome cherubim in helmets
and protective gear.
to live in a physics of entropy,
blitzed by the blank light
of the disc we spin in
and will spin out of—it means
we can think, if we want,
that the future stands before us like a preacher
on the sidewalk, waving his stack
of shoddy bibles, though it does not.
We can think we could do anything today
but we won’t do anything today.
We can think we’d be better off
for being able to do something we don’t
want to do, if we wanted to.
I mean I admire the shrew
lost on the astroturf, which doesn’t dream
of one day being the senior broker
it won’t be.
Less vaguely still,
I am talking to you—whom I haven’t
even told yet, in this story, what to win is.