to searching for my mom's obituary,
I have regressed to a state
of beautiful naïveté.
I've never been great at anything,
but just kay at a lot of things,
most of which are pointless talents
like spinning a restaurant tray
for an impressive length of time.
I've been living in last call,
the legend of mediocre Tweet like:
"But the word Papyrus tattooed
in the font of Comic Sans,
and the words Comic Sans tattooed
in the font of Papyrus...on my biceps."
my sister is officially old,
drinking sad gin-and-tonics
and talking incessantly
about people I do not know at all;
her neighbors, her co-workers,
her long-time fiancé's co-workers' kid
who may go to college in Florida.
being normal and boring
is sometimes unstoppably great,
because then you write pedestrian poems
about little annoyances and personal peccadilloes—
like how to load a dishwasher properly—
instead of getting arrested in a Petsmart in Pittsburgh.
I've learned to not sleep
on this feeling of unfeigned familial
easy oblivion.