by Micah Stack  

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Last week, a colleague of mine, a

polite blonde with mediocre calves,

told me excitedly that she was

pregnant. When I offered my condolences,

I knew that she would appreciate it more

months later when I showed my

sensitive side.

Warm up to apathy, cool off with rage.

Cultivate inappropriate nonchalance

whenever possible.

Two days ago, I berated a child

unceremoniously.

While he wept,

I tried to clean my glasses

on my purple, stain-resistant tie;

I am sorry to report they were

still dirty.

Get used to the echo of thin walls

you’ve left holes in.

Delight in the sensuous pang

of bruised knuckles.

When I looked away from the T.V.

last night, my new puppy was

pissing, staring back at me.

I grabbed her by the neckfur

with a majestic sweep and

flung her at the couch.

Her tail never stopped wagging,

and I couldn’t find the

paper towels.

Wretchedness flattens itself,

the ghost melting into the wall:

it scares at first, but eventually

you accept its habit

of wailing at odd moments,

of wetting the bed.