Like Crashing

To the chickadees and traffic each morning,
To the same frigid light,
Crashing through the same broken set of blinds—

It’s no surprise people feel trapped in a state
Of their own design: a state of perpetual

Those rays hit the scratched hardwood,
The imperfect linoleum, the high-piled carpet,
Crashing into slivers that slip under hungover eyelids,
Causing the black and white and brown
Mothers, brothers, fathers, and lovers
To wake.

Whether from work, or drink, or the weight of injustice,
They struggle to lift their bodies, bodies that could use fewer, or maybe more, calories,
Crashing gently into the eggshell hall to hold themselves aloft,
Thinking of a cup of tea that smells of pear,
Or coffee that they can’t smell at all anymore,
Or of a failing transmission that they can’t afford to fix.

They gain momentum,
Leaving the hall on the will of two feet, maybe not their own,
Crashing water into their scarred and tired and innocent faces,
From old sinks that need replacing,
From fixtures newly-installed,
From the river not too far from the campsite they’ve visited since childhood.

Days begin and pass, and our heroes and heroines
Try, and often fail, to do better, sometimes

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