I catch a glimpse of my bright life in the morning,
before I begin, it looks like a small dog
up at me to ask which way to go, as I bend
to put on shoes. I step on it for the first
time that day going out the door, then it sees
where we’re going—to the office to know
only certain kinds of corners, sharp metal gods
the size of filing cabinets, each day a bundle
of time dropped like a newspaper on my step
and layered so similarly, down to the mall at lunch
(garbage can, bench, plant, bench, garbage can).
I see a man caught in the eye of a camera.
He watches himself on TV, raises an arm,
at last reflected in the face that means so much.
Somehow sad, wrapped in the flag of a trench coat.
I look back, see he’s still caught in the spell,
step out to get the brochure reminder: except a man
be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.
And the man who misses the garbage, keeps going,
takes one small piece of my hope, but I get it back
from the crooked wave of a co-worker I like.
At home I get in the door, catch another look
as my life reappears, and like a wet dog,
shakes itself off. Covered in pins, useless notes,
it looks up at me again. I’m tired, I say.