Neighborhood song

Where things end up is past wondering.
Despair leaves a bag of burning shit at your door.

Rings the doorbell and runs. Sadness comes
to visit and sees the bag, stamps out the fire

before you can open the door and stop it.
Sadness never gets the trick. If you close

the door in its face, it will just stand there
and wait. Perspective texts you by mistake

a few minutes later: “You really put your foot
in it this time.” So eventually you let sadness in

And make it a favorite drink. You throw a comforter
and pillow on the couch, or chair, or floor.

You know it can take care of itself, and will leave
when it’s ready. Regret can’t blame the door

It walks into until you have opened it up to let
it in, and it can see what’s behind it clearly.

“You never should have let th-that thing in,”
pointing to the slumbering lump on the couch.

There is no need to be nice. Once you push
it out into the night, “You’ll end up wondering

what you’ve wasted your time on!” it says,
backing down the steps. The rain, being rain,

begins. Miles away the storm is thundering
like the biggest lost imagined toy. In the dark

you may have smiled, like a clock-face caught
by lightning. There are words for what you see

which don’t exist in the past, which dissolve like joy.
Where things end up is past wondering.