Sing (to yourself,
not out loud, not where
you could be heard)
your favorite songs
that carry some offense
in their lyrics.

Watch (quietly, in the dark,
so as not to disturb others)
every television show or movie
you laugh at or live for
that has a stereotype or two
for a beloved main character.

Stare (once you’re alone,
only after the first two exercises
are complete) at your bookshelf
full of well-thumbed pages
of nonsense and somewhat
troubling oppressive thought.

It’s all been part of a problem.
You might want to get cozy with it;
maybe you get fetal, pull up a corner
and fail. Or you might want
to reconsider the sources of your joy,
then dig in and extract and reset

whatever nuggets you can
from the matrix where they’re embedded —
one chord progression, two ensemble moments,
three turns of perfect phrase. From now on
it is not going to be easy if you are inclined
to do anything more than just survive.

Froggy as nerves are
no true surprise in how jumpy
he got with drink in his head
after it happened

and him being not in such
a good place with it,

became a monk of a man
in a hood and a vow
with abbot fringe on it,

no reason
to believe he’d calm himself
after a fire like that one, him
calling out to his children burned,
no longer here except as ghosts,

him not a problem to most though
we none of us liked his wailing over his loss
no matter that we saw how profound it was,
how dark
that hollow, how firmly he moved in
and lived there ever after until
he died

and we saw him
lying on moss behind his hut
not anymore riled and righteous,
now asleep and no longer disturbing us
who long ago felt sad
but trod lightly now outside in case
we stirred those finally sleeping
small brittle kid-spirits
who really should long ago
have been at rest.