A Study in Eventuality

Funny, isn’t it, how hard to describe

a good man? In the shower, I let

the water run hot as my blood filtering

a mirror of loss. The messenger arrived

flustered as feathers falling to the place

where feathers go to find each other. Who

is the man who makes you remark, “I have

been lucky”? How does the faucet instruct

forgiveness? Our voices spiral to meet

with too much space between. My cuticles

shine like chrome under the moment’s remains.

A demand for nakedness pools somewhere

down the drain. For what we’ve been able to

let go, and know it happens to us all.