Hack It

Mom says if it doesn’t get better we

can go tell a doctor vague things about

organs resting on spine, eyes like

pasta pans overfilled, boiled water spitting

onto oven-top skin. The doc

will give us quizzes and poke us

and ask us if we are tired of being alive

Doc, oh doctor. I have had nothing as

Good. as being alive. As vibrant, flavorful—

Doc, how could anyone be tired of bread,

Butter and crust and four part chords

the flower smell, often at funerals

Thunder, rain on car windows, and

Every wonderful thing light does

To dust and water and old dog hair

What you’re really asking, doctor, is

Am I depressed. Yes.

I spent all weekend in bed, staring at the ceiling

like the knee of jeans

too thoroughly worn.