Burn and Dodge

The Poem for Envy I Cannot Write

 the Poem for envy i Cannot Write will have to be written by somebody else the one I’d rather have been who would have no trouble sitting at her desk beneath its tilted green lampshade or in this orange-lollipop subway seat to find the words to blunt Envy’s sting. What if I praise the thorns on the fire-tipped yellow rose of the man who has just plunked down opposite or the Death skull on the navy sweatshirt of the next man to sit there or the quick grace of the woman (in her minister’s collar!) who stooped to retrieve the pencil I didn’t notice dropping? And if this is becoming an ode to Chance perhaps that will cast the spell so Envy feels quelled enough to go churn someone else’s stomach keep someone else up half the night. “You will have luck in everything you turn your hands to do,” says my Chinese fortune. If that’s true, instead of leaving Envy offerings should I be praising Lady Fortune who rises up from her clamshell cookie with her cheek always turned half away, her prophetic fickle-colored skirts gliding her out of the room? ...