The day marches on,
the seasons change in forty-eight hours,
and you’re left with very few constants,
no through lines of wisdom beyond what
you already know:
It will change (it always changes)
It will get better (it always does)
It will get worse, and
then better again,
and all that remains,
all that ever remains,
The sun stood out through the clouds this morning.
There’s a dead squirrel down the street, arms outstretched in rigor mortis.
It’s been there for two days.
Where was I two days ago?
I couldn’t tell you,
but I’m here now.