the smell of rain and fresh cut grass combine to bunker my existence

sometimes I want to be miserable,

but it only comes when I don't want it,

like on a sunny day instead of storm,

a grassy field rather than flood.

a hole made in a handle of a hatchet,

a hollow made in the head of a hammer,

waiting for one to break and the other to make;

every Monday my back burns because I carry opposing wishes.

love is a tool of destruction,

and destruction is the desire of creation,

making new the lake and the lawn,

making old the concrete poem and the bloody dawn. 

with sports on in the background, Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem 

by Helene Johnson reminds me of you for some reason.