Bad shoulder, I say, hoping that will fix it.
It just cowers like a dog scolded for stealing a car.
Maybe bad dogs in my neighborhood were different 
than yours. With bad knees and hips too,
I'm some kind of rotten apple or a xylophone
that's lost its way. These flailings at saying
what a person is, even one as close to me 
as me, are more enjoyable when I know 
there's orange jello in the fridge. 
All the stirring involved in making jello 
hurt my shoulder, as did digging a grave 
for my shadow, but the idea of a place 
for everything and everything in its place 
gets too much credit for keeping nuclear missiles 
out of the pantry. What if I want one there? 
What if I like cutting my thigh with a razor?
What if I'm disappointed I'll never have sex
with music, cunnilingus with what Chopin
was getting up to, etcetera? In other words, 
can you help me or can I help you? Can anyone 
help anyone or everyone, since I like 
a bit of ambition in my sincerity? Fuck 
my shoulder. Seriously. I think a little sex 
would help there too. 
I don't need to watch, I'll turn my head
into a rose or a lighthouse 
to give comfort to those 
lost in the fog. I'd kill to be 
that sturdy and useful. To have stairs 
in me. To get all that time alone 
to gossip with the sea.