The tempest of illogical expectations. You make tea
and ethical dance hats, and carry a carrot to work in
a can of air. You wonder about the way things bend.
You’ve seen things bend that weren’t meant to bend.
There’s a sound, there, and it’s a sound that clarifies.
Soup follows sunset the way a loved one carries a club.
Read the book then read the book then read the book
again. I willed myself to consider objectivity inside out
yet all that did was to make me name all of the kittens
Doug. My friend Andy used to work in a bank. I think
he’s still in there. Somewhere. Somehow. Go ahead,
ask them about those new checking accounts. I dare
you. Their answer is of their eyes. If you were to tell
me that the groundhog is back I’d work on my accent
and take to the streets with a wheelbarrow full of all
my mistakes and at least six of the Dougs. Footprints
subvert the narrative scope. You like the way it looks.
You think about it, at night, in the cellar, in that stream
with those fucking big bears and rocks that mean more
than they should. You love what hurts you, somehow,
but that’s bullshit, and I’m still not wearing my perfect
pants.Somewhere they’re counting backwards again
and I’m not wearing my perfect pants. That’s the egg,
talking. You hope for what I want, and I hope I’m not
you. How’s that for breakfast? I have bought twelve
guns, in my mind, and some bubble gum that tastes
weirdly of trumpets. Lounging in Andy’s deep green
veranda. And you thought what I wanted was more.
Jeffrey Little | Unbecoming the Rain
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2024)