I feel like I am lost
Between thoughts
Between muses
Of better luck, and
Of better luck next time.
The pity that has crowned me
For all to see, and feel,
Comes rightfully,
As I do pity myself,
Like a mouse ought to
In deepest winter.
The mouse, however,
Sleeps through it,
While I turn and toss,
Wrapped in my blanket
And in thoughts of fortune
And in my misfortune.
I cannot complain;
I have known a good life,
A life with luck,
A life with privilege
Compared to the mouse's.
Yet, I still feel lost
Between thoughts
Between muses
Of better luck,
And better luck
Which I wish myself
Next time.