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.