I’m running out of exegeses to mellow out
the buzz of tragedy. I’d run 2,600 miles to save
you from even another missing eyelash.
What’s a wish for if we can’t
drink away Mondays for happy reasons —
waking up is already a bummer enough.
I’m sorry for blacking out
on the T and arguing with the world
for trying to push me underground;
I just wanted it to feel boisterous
as Boylston when we really dug our heels
in and rode it ‘til it collapsed on the edge of town,
and I know it was like 5 years ago but it still
makes me feel shitty. Not to mention it’s tax day
and everyone already feels shitty but we gotta try
to make things feel like they could be
their springy bluebeautiful selves again.