November 12, 2019

No one said it wouldn’t rain

or that the menu would still feature those fried Brussels sprouts you like
or that the park, this late in the season, would be uninterrupted by tourists or that you 
would be loved, instantaneously and unreservedly, by your friend’s elusive cat
or that the city you left twenty years ago would still feel familiar or that the decisions
you consider with fastidious mental detail mean anything more than the ones you don't
or that your body will do exactly what you ask of it, without complaint or that you 
wouldn’t feel embarrassed by how you’ve left certain things patchy or, worse, broken 
or that what should be simple, even obvious,, often eludes you the most or that this
is how you would wake into the world each morning—heart leaning clumsily forward, 
eyes scattering toward light—willing to make your messes, eager to get wet.