It’s Monday night, and a car is blocking the dumpster
with the DO NOT BLOCK ON MONDAY NIGHT sign on it.
And there was never any hope that things would go as hoped.

Walking home from my job I wanted, on the morning of day one,
to love, I might as well be putting a book over my heart and allowing
the bullet through anyway. There was never any hope for such a thing

as being born to be ecstatic about everything.
The traffic at this intersection is just terrible. The little store
sells beer to minors. I’m out of gum. I refuse to go in there,

where the light of the world is so dim.
God knows when you’re in a rotten mood
you should just examine your knuckles,

as much as your skin will allow, get home
from your job, or wherever you’ve been,
and sit down and examine your invisible

prowess. Then feel how your closed eyes
see through your bloodscreen to your blood.
Then, eyes still closed, look outward toward the green field.

What is it? Not green. Not a field. Then put your hands
over your eyelids. You’ve never been so dying
to read what the lines on your palms have to say.

The joy you were granted won’t materialize, it will sing.

– Douglas Nordfors