by Alan Brit
Come on, little heartache;
up those steps.
Sure, I’ll give you a hand.
Pretty soon we’ll invent
new days of the week,
since it doesn’t matter, really,
what we call things,
especially things fashioned
from ideas meant to check daily existence
off the calendar, as opposed to, say,
dragging an arthritic hind claw
across the carport pavement,
or wobbling against asbestos tiles
and noticing for the last time
a tile’s crinkled texture,
its white powdery skin,
plus that ubiquitous chip at its edge
resembling a petroglyph of your youth.