I could tell you of the hallow things,
the milky film that floats just on the surface
the belly, soft and full that can be kneaded like bread,
the sour stench of feet in leather loafers,
worn through like threadbare patches
on the inner thighs of expensive pants
that try as they might, could never make my body
less of a body.
I could tell you of the A that had a minus hanging
from one end, an unholy tail.
Almost a strike but one pin left standing.
Or the equation left unsolved,
the hole I ripped through my shirt,
infuriated by the way the numbers clogged the cogs
of a machine that I had built and maintained
to prove, through intellect, my validity.
I could tell you of the patterns I perpetuate,
my body and being as pillow, as dish towel,
as comfort or clean up.
Or the ease with which the word “fine” drips off my tongue,
as flavorless as saliva
and far less purposeful.
I could tell you how I aspire to a perfection
I never achieve,
that sesame seeds from late-to-work bagels
are nestled in the seams of my car’s seat
and the laundry is never all finished.
And yet some distant point remains fixed in my mind
where perfection might be hiding,
not quite framed in the crosshairs
of my sloppy shot.