This naked, lonely question
is still simmering in a crock pot
on the counter of a beach bungalow
where no one lives. But if you like,
I can show you some examples of what falls
out of my life when it’s whacked like a piñata:
My friend Emily reminisces about the cat
she used to have, and still misses.
“Clearly, Pippin and I were telepathic.”
In my collection of very bad Christmas decorations
there is a cloisonné manger scene with a baby Jesus
who has a snout like a piglet.
I have been criticized for always looking downward
when I walk. But in only five decades I have found enough
coins to sink a rowboat.
If I were a household object I would insist
on being a gooseneck lamp or the yarn mane
of a toy horse.
Most of my prayers are like drive-by shootings.
Please help me. Please save her. Thank you
for the parking spot.