Thirty-two Short Lines by Someone Who Is Not Glenn Gould

There are breadcrumbs

on the stairs—finally.

 

The ascent is harder

if your name is Eunice.

 

Dirt under the fingernails

bodes a long winter

 

unless the moon is round

and smooth and hypocritical.

 

We find pleasure in

other people who are

 

lost and confused but

like the same desserts as us.

 

We are all the same

in the importance

 

we place on things

like sex and love

 

but diverge a little

on bowling and capitalizing

 

initial letters when we

write emails home

 

asking for money

or have they seen our

 

tennis racket lately.

I feel hopeful

 

but also worry I’ll

never really learn

 

how to wrap a neat

Christmas package.

 

To say anymore

would compound

 

 

my fear that bread

really is the staff of life.

 

 

Done