Fool’s Gold

This morning I love everyone, 
even Jerome, the neighbor I hate, 
and the sun. And the sun

has pre-warmed my bucket seat  
for the drive up Arsenal Street  
with the hot car effect,

a phenomenon climatologists 
use to explain global warming 
to senators and kids.

I love the limited edition 
Swingline gold stapler 
in the oil change lounge

which can, like a poem, 
affix anything to anything 
on paper. One sheet of paper,

for instance, for that cloud of gnats, 
one for this lady’s pit mix 
wagging his tail so violently

I fear he’ll hurt his hips.  
One sheet for glittered lip balm, 
for eye contact, Bitcoin extortion

and the imperfect tense.  
Sheets for each unfulfilled wish 
I left in a penny in a mall fountain.

Sun spills into the lounge  
through the window decal 
in geometric Tetris wedges.

I have a sheet for Tetris, 
its random sequence of pieces 
falling toward me in this well

like color coded aspects of the life 
I neglected to live, for the pleasure 
of making line after line

disappear. The gold stapler 
has twenty-sheet capacity 
so I straighten my stack

on the reception counter 
and staple the day together 
with an echoing chunk.