or the thousandth
I have lived this existence?
Wonder is what makes the jukebox play.
I think about this over lunch,
a house caesar salad
and a side of fries,
and Kerouac's Book of Sketches.
If this is the thousandth, am I getting better at it or worse?
In a parallel life,
we sit across from each other
at the kitchen table
and make a grocery list.
Our job on this Earth is to leave artifacts.
I am living my own explosion,
leaving books behind me,
as evidence I was here this go round.