What can it mean when early morning he
taps open dating app while asking where
can my baby girl my little girl be?
The rest’s pretending or wishing I cared

What does it say when he wakes up worried
about a role he never meant to play,
and God he begs, his motions unhurried,
to be allowed to quit work but not pay?

A man near fifty minus some someone
who needs him alive is driftwood and foam
slow scraping bare beach beneath a northern sun.
He can be or not, this soul without a home.

Is it sad and lonely or gently freeing?
“All manner of things shall be well for us beings
held fast in the clutches of a loving God”:
This song we sing, as we through time-space plod.

And so our hero, for focus forges stars,
Evaporates, like woman stewing fish
in Hiroshima, lucky to be not far
from the swollen center of death our wish.
Our only excuse, our sole salvation is
that never we were. Each iteration is
another rise and shine morning glory
another tuck you in bedtime story.

Author: We don’t remember
Choreographer: Bartleby Willard
Prima Ballerina: Amble Whistletown
Copyright: Andy Watson