Something on the water.  Something

wholesome, like spoiling corn crops

or sparking a tri-state wildfire.  Or

a bit of glamour, like stopping glass

elevators in casinos, between floors,

then dropping them.  I’m tired

of small catastrophe, the delicate

balance between shrugged-off accident

and tiny horror.  Fits of pique, bursts

of desperate memory, tireless, dull

annoyance:  How many brittle ankles

can be wrenched in holes?  How many

jugs of milk can be soured before time?

How many smashed heirlooms, rained-

out parades, singed fingertips, coins

dropped in grates, stained blouses

before business meetings?  How

many shiny balloons are there still

to burst?