Moving On

it—I mean moving on—

would be infinitely more preferable

if we weren’t all so sticky;

I mean if we weren’t,

by our nature,

bound to pick up ephemera.

Ephemera is missing pieces:

broken parts from the broken car;

the mechanic’s tobacco dust;

the angry voice of a stranger;

the tight lip of the barista;

the frustrated hippie behind the counter;

the weed-stained walls from the landlord;

the ever-biting cold from Midwest winters;

and, in sum,

the whole impatient, huddled, muddled masses.

Called to love them—and so I do (I try).

I try.

Oddly, it’s the Kwik Trip cashier

Who calmly reminds me

of my humanity!

Moving on is possible only

for the apathetic!