Fatalistic Futons

Don’t be afraid,

no understanding will come of this,

like a ghost in the night,

like the one

visiting Hamlet in

certain moments

of uncertain insanity,

she won’t read this, and

if she does

she

won’t understand

it, nor be concerned,

not any bit - care simply

is – to  be -

un-present,

the “un” a great expression

to things

apathetic,

“an unwillingness definitive of prefix,”

no one is ever good at Scrabble,

cheat every chance

without shame or confession,

but I think she would care,

and I think she does care,

I think I think I want her to

care, dear Polonius,

but does it seem she cares

- would care per chance of caring –

for nothing?

because the business

model, the world,

tells me and itself

that it’s only motivation

to act

is based on individual

gain,

and it’s only fair to think

“there’s something in it for me,”

and it’s only honest

to think there’s nothing

here

for me,

and lo! I, we, miss you

and want to keep

all your pictures

pasted in scrap books,

un-charred by fatalism

and that haunting

regret eating

innocence

from the

inside out,

everyone dies in the end,

of pierce or poison,

and we’re all begging

to ask the question,

“to be or not…”

knowing the answer

will be like the fool

spying behind the curtain

meeting the dear sweet

death

of a dear sweet

friend

confined to

the availability of couch

and futon and spare

rooms in places named

first, old, former, previous,

and throw pillows, and pets

with funny names

like

Cannon, Swisher, Petrie,

Cat, Hamlet,

and I’m neither sure which

is more reliable but to

wish I could an escape

the couch

I chose

to sleep on.