after a surprisingly good yesterland,
I trace my steps in sewer sand
and sing along to thunder,
which follows me over the horizon
to a town turning new leafs,
green as can be.
the lightning alarm sounds
and the children run away,
but I stay and play,
daring Hashem to have me
or leave me be.
one might think that taunting death
is a chaotic afterthought of psychotic behavior,
but it's nothing more than existential summation,
where the end result is still breathing,
a heart still beating,
and me smiling because life is here and good.
a trophy in the distance
is still a trophy,
and now it is time for breakfast,
because the bacon is not gonna fry itself,
so let's rejoice in tastebuds
and forget what ails us.