Don’t think about it.
The last place, finish line, pedestal, podium
The idle dreams of athletes whose sweat you’d never touch
Not even the bridesmaid, light-years from the bride,
Not the pity-**** flower girl,
And certainly nobody’s first choice.
No, don’t think about it,
Because there will be time enough
In that infinite second after you’ve spoken ill
When you do think
And think it for the thousandth time
That you, you crooked thing,
You are alone even in a crowd
That that was always your talent
Raised up for it like veal
Alone in a crowd
Alone even among those who love you
Or claim to
Or love some strange idea of you, half-made,
Rendered of your spur of the moment ramblings and
Whatever fancies cloud their own eyes
Yes, you belong to some circles,
And dance in and out of them like smoke passed mouth to mouth
You nominally entertain the idea of having friends
And then, in truth, are never there.
So, don’t think about it.
Don’t think about it
Until your face is up against the wall of the truth of it
Until stone scrapes the soft flesh of your cheek off the bone
And there’s nowhere else to go.
And when you do think of it,
Do it like you always do-
Look at it out the corner of your eye like a basilisk,
And then, lazily, avert your gaze
And go back to dreaming.
You weren’t strong enough to think about it anyway.