Statisticians

Dressed to listen. To hear. The shiver of eager pennies as they fall. From the edge. The center is god. From the center it is the opposite. Saying things we can never do. Doing things we've never said. Tying knots in the moments. So no one can unravel. So no stray strand is our undoing.

The ant comes bearing a gift for the grasshopper. A crumb of food foraged. A pretentious lesson in stealing the right way.

Dressed to give almost anything. The outline of missing pockets on her ass. Sour road map to taste her tits. Lugubrious poetry of the empty glass. I don't need pockets anymore she shouted. I have nothing left to put in them.

No change to jangle as if I've been to the store. Discovered something I want. No traces of the drugs we did. Nor keys to give me access. To the cages we mistook for happiness. Just these fingers. Calloused fingers too short. That keep reaching. Always short of grabbing. The thing I thought I had.

We're only happy when we're broken. Alone and sure someone is to blame. We're only happy when there's something to pray for. Some devilish deity that holds our fate in his hands. And we spend the whole year waiting for the night when we can ask him. For what is it we want.

So that come morning we'll not have to hate ourselves. At least for this one day. Because once a year. Only just once. Nothing is our fault.