I start the treadmill, business station on
the small tv, listen to interviews about
what will be – we might just as well consult
a crystal ball, tarot cards, or a Ouija board.
Perhaps one Saturday morning, with April
warming on our fingertips, we could leave
the constant rearrangement of garage world,
stand in the middle of the back yard,
toss prescient straws onto the grass, where
they can be read, like slightly askew pie
charts. We could make vast profits, or, in
the evening, with tea or wine, I could write
a word on the laptop screen – just one word –
and predict the success of the budding poem.