Pothole

If I walked by me on the street
I wouldn’t know me from a pothole,
and I’ve been a pothole.  I’ve tripped
people up and ruined their days.
I’m one ugly son of a bitch,

by which I mean I think I am one
beautiful son of a bitch,
and you just can’t get close enough
to see and agree.  (Even I
can’t, so don’t try.)  I’m short sharp cliffs
and rubble at the bottom
and you don’t even notice me
unless you step on me or drive by,

which is how I get along.
Even when patched (which happens
now and then, some well-meaning
fool takes pity and fills me)
I come back as big and rough as ever.

I try to think of myself, sometimes,
as the Rift Valley,
full of origins and the mud of ages.
I tell myself all those pebbles at the bottom
hide relics

until the next time I shudder slightly
at the rupture of a tire, the curse
of the tripped pedestrian who was simply
trying to get somewhere when they encountered
me.  When it’s over I snicker

and tell myself,
yeah, I’m a damn pothole and I’m OK
not seeing myself for what I am
until I cause some hurt to another,
it’s my nature, negative scorpion on a frog’s back,
created by some flaw in the making,
some resistance to repair,
some blindness and suspension
of desire to be whole.  After all,

a cussing out
is better than nothing.