everything were recognized as a slice
of something else, everlasting more
glances towards mercy, and the bell ringers
with red kettles were heavenly scribes.
If only brothered and sistered were not so
estranged, knotty conversations flowed agile
as the sea, and the parallel park of
arguments could spritz anxiety away.
If only to be first or last didn’t churn
the equation of what goes on behind
the scenes and in the marrow of silence
it’s just what we know for sure.
If only Too Much was required to wear diapers,
and Not Enough to sprout wings, politicians
deported and rerouted with regularity,
and the policies of their policies merely
a single bad day at the slots.
If only mermaid parades were monthly,
social media reserved for whirly-spring
wonder and the book would fall open
to that one word that would save us.
If only the disjointed and episodic
were simply Just Don’t or Just Do,
the howling face had a workbook
with good news annotations, and
this life of fetch wasn’t in such
a hurry.
If only we could sugar
the sleepers on steam grates,
the shrapneled at the playgrounds,
and the handcuffed from their again
and again.
