I'm Not Supposed to Wear This Gorilla Costume
I'm supposed to be on a plane for Gibraltar.
On the back of my hand, I've written keywords
like natural disaster and conscience.
In the turbulence, I'd be taking the in-flight meal
apart with a plastic knife. It is always up
to the omelet to appear greening in the light.
So what if I've begun to resemble a hair ball
by the hour? I've never gotten paid on time,
never had my nose hair plucked by
a professional. There's supposed to be
a celebration of some sort—pagan
or otherwise—taking place in three days
at the studio of a future spouse.
The expectations of others have little
to do with reality. The way everyone
prepares their clothes to jitterbug the dancefloor
is supposed to make me think everything else
is the alpha dog. I shouldn't even be
following this trail of dead ants, but someone
burned them and left the magnifying lens
in my hand. I have a birthday greeting, too
hidden somewhere in my body. I should stop
fondling all this synthetic hair now. If this is Kansas,
what have I been fighting for all my life?
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