If I Were a Poet

The thing about luck and chance
is that they are not things. They are like
your 7-year-old nephew who dresses up as a fireman for Halloween
even though his involvement with fires so far has only been starting them.
Or the kid whose nose you bloodied in third grade for pulling your puppy’s tail,
who is now interviewing you for a job at a pet store.

Some people think the universe is a planned community
of tract home planets with names like “willow brook,”
all under the care of an omnipotent, benevolent landlord.
But that’s not what it really is.
It’s actually all a comedy show
for a sold-out crowd
who laugh half-heartedly at our bad acting
and then write scathing reviews the next morning.