I really, really, really hope I’m right,

I just don’t know what about at the moment,

but when I figure it out, though I probably won’t, but if I do,

then I hope, I really, really, really do, hope that I’m right on the dot,

maybe an inch or two to the right or left,

but either way,

it’d be fucking awesome if I could be right about whatever it is I need to be right about

a back that breaks, made by papier-mache clapping together until soft bones

creak together on a hot summer night, filled with still breath lingering through the meadows

made of broken cartilage hanging on by a thread, sewn into the a pillow to lay down

and rest and be easy, don’t go yet,

play outside, just get me Tylenol before you leave

Fred Aiken Writing